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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS. 




LONDON : 
WILLIAM SMITH, 113, FLEET STREET. 



MDCCCXXXIX. 



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LONDON : 

BRADBURY AND EVANS, PROCTERS TO THE QUEEN, 

■VVHITEFRIARS. 

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PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION, 

BEARING THE IMPRINT, "KILMARNOCK, 1786." 



The following trifles are not the production of the poet who, with' 
all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an 
eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the Author of this, these, and 
other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at least, in their 
original language, a fo un tain shut up, and a book sealed. Unac- 
quainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, 
he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself 
and his rustic compeers around him, in his and their native lan- 
guage. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the 
earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that 
the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, awakened his 
vanity so far as to make him think anything of his worth showing ; 
and none of the following works were composed with a view to the 
press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, 
amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the 
various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his 
own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a 
world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind— 
these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he 
found Poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears in the 
public character of an Author, he does it with fear and trembling. 
So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, 
nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as 
—an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; 
and because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
quence forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to our language, our 



VI PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

nation, and our species, that " Humiltty has depressed many a 
genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame ' " If any critic 
catches at the word Genius, the Author tells him, once for all, that 
he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, 
otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a 
manoeuvre below the worst character which, he hopes, his worst 
enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the 
glorious dawnings of the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal 
unaffected sincerity, declares that, even in his highest pulse of 
vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly 
admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following 
pieces : but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for 
servile imitation. 

To his subscribers, the Author returns his most sincere thanks — 
not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gra- 
titude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and 
friendship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish 
of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, 
particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with 
a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and 
circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial 
criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let 
him be done by as he would in that case do by others— let him be 
condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. 



DEDICATION TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



TO THK NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE 
CALEDONIAN HUNT. 

My Lords and Gentlemen, — A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, 
and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country's service — where 
shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of 
his native land ; those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues 
of their ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of my country found me, as 
the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough, and threw 
her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the 
joys, the rural scenes, and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue : I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. — 
She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, 
and lay my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her 
dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, 
my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank 
you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted 
Learning, that honest Rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present 
this Address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a 
continuation of those favours : I was bred to the plough, and am 
independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with 
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory 
in the title. I come to congratulate my country, that the blood of 
her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your 
courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my 
warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of 
the Universe, for your welfare and happiness. 



Vlll DEDICATION TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and 
favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of 
your party ; and may Social Joy await your return : when harassed 
in courts or camps, with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, 
may the honest consciousness of injured Worth attend your return 
to your native seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling 
welcome, meet you at your gates ! May Corruption shrink at your 
kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and 
licentiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, 
With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble Servant, 
ROBERT BURNS. 
Edinburgh, April 4, 
1787- 



MEMOIR 



THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



The Author of the immortal Poems which are now presented to 
the public in a novel form, — poems, of which Mr. Pitt declared 
that he could think of none since Shakspeare's that had so much 
the appearance of sweetly coming from nature, was horn in a clay- 
built cottage on the banks of the Doon, on the 25th day of January, 
1759, under auspices which but too truly predicted the fate of him 
who, amid storm and tempest, was brought into this inhospitable 
world. Robert Burns was the eldest son of William Burness, and 
Agnes Brown his wife. William Burness, who was born in 1721, 
was the son of a small Kincardineshire farmer, whose family had 
been retainers of the noble house of Keith Marshall, attainted for 
having been out in 1715; their fortunes affected the prosperity of 
their tenantry, and at the age of nineteen William Burness found 
himself obliged to leave the paternal roof, and seek his fortune in 
the wide world. " Never shall I forget," he often said, " the bitter 
feelings with which I parted from my younger brother on the top 
of a lonely hill, and turned my steps towards the Border." He first 
sought employment at Edinburgh as a gardener, from thence he 
removed to Ayrshire, and lived for two years in the service of the 
laird of Fairly, and afterwards with Crawford of Doonside. He 
was next induced to take a perpetual lease of seven acres of land, 
with the intention of establishing himself as a nurseryman and 
public gardener ; he built a house on this land with his own 
hands, and in December, 1757, brought home Agnes Brown to his 
humble dwelling. Before he made much progress in preparing his 
nursery-ground, he was engaged by Mr. Ferguson, who had lately 
purchased the neighbouring estate of Doonholm, in the double 
capacity of gardener and overseer, and such was his condition when 
Robert Burns was born. The storms of winter howled around the 
cradle of the Poet ; the frail walls of the clay-built hovel yielded 
to the blast ; and at midnight the mother and her helpless infant 
were borne from their tottering house to the shelter of a neighbour- 
ing cottage. This evil was however soon repaired, and for nine years 
William Burness continued in the service of Mr. Ferguson, whilst 
his wife occupied herself in the management of her family, and of 



X MEMOIR OF THE 

a small dairy. They lived contented and happy, and comparatively 
prosperous. This peaceful life was not however of long continu- 
ance. In an evil hour, Burness, desirous of making a better pro- 
vision for his rising family than his present circumstances allowed, 
resolved to become a farmer. Mr. Ferguson, to whom he had 
proved a valuable and faithful servant, granted him a lease of a 
farm called Mount Oliphant, on which he entered at Whitsuntide, 
1766, and lent him a hundred poimds to assist in stocking it. This 
step was but the commencement of a series of misfortunes, which 
pursued him to the grave. The soil of Mount Oliphant was poor, 
the rent was high ; his friendly landlord died, and the estates fell into 
the management of " a stern factor, whose threatening letters," 
says Robert Burns, "set us all in tears." Hard labour and rigid 
economy were vainly opposed to the tide of misfortune. Gilbert 
Burns, the poet's younger brother, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, thus 
feelingly describes their condition. "For several years butcher's 
meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the 
family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength, and 
rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the 
age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fif- 
teen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired 
servant, male or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our 
tender years, under these straits and difficulties, was very great. 
To think of our father growing old (for he was now above fifty), 
broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life, with a 
wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circum- 
stances, — these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distress." 

For eleven years William Burness continued to struggle on at 
Mount Oliphant; at Whitsuntide, 1777, he removed to Lochlea, a 
better farm, of 130 acres, in the parish of Tarbolton, about ten miles 
from Mount Oliphant. Here for four years he met with better 
success, but in the fifth the sky was again overcast. The markets 
were unfavourable, and a dispute arose concerning the terms of his 
lease, the conditions of which had never been reduced to writing. 
The difference was at length referred to arbitration ; the result was 
his ruin. He lived to be acquainted with the decision which de- 
stroyed his last hopes of worldly prosperity, but death spared 
him from further suffering ; he died of consumption on the 13th 
February, 1784. 

William Burness was not an ordinary man. Of his integrity, 
the confidence reposed in him by Mr. Ferguson is an honourable 
testimony ; of his care of the education of his children, not only his 
illustrious first-born, but his whole family, and especially his second 
son, Gilbert, were convincing proofs. He was himself possessed of 
considerable information ; to the ordinary education of a Scottish 
peasant, he added an extensive and shrewd knowledge of mankind : 
" I have met with few," said his son Robert, " who understood men, 
their manners, and their ways, better than my father." Amidst all 
the pressure of hardship and misfortune, the care of his children's 
minds was ever uppermost with William Burness. His son Robert 
was sent, in his sixth year, to a school at Alloway Miln, but the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XI 

teacher being shortly removed to another situation, William 
Burness, and five of his neighbours, engaged John Murdoch, a 
student of divinity, in his stead, lodging him by turns in their 
houses. The character of William Burness is well depicted in a 
letter from Mr. Murdoch to Dr. Currie, published in his life of the 
Poet. "He was," says Mr. Murdoch, "a tender and affectionate 
father; he took pleasure in leading his children in the path of 
virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents do, to the performance 
of duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find 
fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation 
was felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the tawz 
(scourge), even on the skirt of the coat, gave heartfelt pain, produced 
a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. . . . But I 
must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly quali- 
ties, the rational and Christian virtues, of the venerable William 
Burness. Time would fail me. I shall only add that he carefully 
practised every known duty, and avoided everything that was cri- 
minal : or, in the apostle's words, ' Herein did he exercise himself, 
in living a life void of offence towards God, and towards men,' " 

Both Robert and Gilbert evinced great aptitude in learning, and 
Murdoch was a kind and skilful master. In reading, writing, and 
arithmetic, they made rapid progress, and were generally at the 
upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by far their 
seniors. 

They remained under the care of Mr. Murdoch for about two years, 
when he left that part of the country ; but William Burness con- 
tinued to instruct his family. In the winter evenings he taught 
them arithmetic ; he borrowed Salmon's Geographical Grammar, 
Derham's Physico and Astro Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God 
in the Creation, and gave them to his children to read ; in their 
walks and at their labours he would lead the conversation to sub- 
jects tending to increase their knowledge or confirm their virtuous 
habits. For their religious instruction, he himself compiled a 
manual, still existing, in which the rigid Calvinism of the more 
orthodox presbyterians is somewhat tempered by the milder doc- 
trines of Arminianism. 

In noticing the education which Burns received, a somewhat curi- 
ous fact should not be omitted. Murdoch attempted to teach his 
pupils a little church music, but the two Burnses were far behind 
their companions in this exercise, and Robert's ear was so dull, and 
his voice so untuneable, that it was some time before he could dis- 
tinguish one tune from another ; yet in after days his facility in 
exquisitely adapting the rhythm of his verses to the melody to which 
they were attached, was remarkable. 

The year after the departure of Mr. Murdoch, who was then 
established in the town of Ayr, our poet enjoyed the advantage of 
three weeks' further tuition from him,— one week before the harvest, 
and two at its conclusion. This short space was occupied in per- 
fecting his knowledge of English grammar, and in some attempts 
at a knowledge of the French language ; but although he returned 
with a dictionary and a TdUmaque, and by dint of laborious study 



Xll MEMOIR OF THE 

made some progress in the language, yet he never mastered it, and 
does not appear to have resumed the study at a later period. 

The thirst for knowledge was now, however, awakened in him ; 
and he perused with avidity every book he could obtain. In his 
situation it was difficult to gain access to any, and it was impossible 
for him to choose ; yet such circumstances have their advantages. 
The man limited to one book will read it thoroughly, when, if 
turned loose into a library, he would perhaps dip into many and 
read none. Burns has left a list of the books he had perused before 
the family left Mount Oliphant, that is to say, at the age of eighteen. 
The collection is heterogeneous ; but, properly applied, contains a 
fund of real knowledge, and there is good evidence that Burns did 
properly apply it. ' ' What I knew of ancient story," says Burns," was 
gathered from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars; 
and the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of literature, and 
criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope's works, some 
plays of Shakspeare, Tate and Dickson on Agriculture, the Heathen 
Pantheon, Locke on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His- 
tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Dictionary, Boyle's 
Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of 
Original Sin, a Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's 
Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading." To these studies 
must be added the songs and ballads of his country, which he 
delighted to listen to, and which probably first awakened the poetic 
fire in his breast. 

Burns's poetical predilections had manifested themselves long 
before quitting Mount Oliphant ; Love and Poetry were the twin- 
birth of his ardent bosom ; but in his own words must the tale be 
told. In a letter to his friend, Dr. Moore, he says, " You know 
our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as part- 
ners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner 
was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My 
scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom, * she was a bonnie 
sweet sonsie lass.' In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, 
initiated me in that delicious passion which, in spite of acid dis- 
appointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I 
hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! 
How she caught the contagion I cannot tell. You medical people 
talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; 
but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when return- 
ing in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart-strings thrill like an Eolian harp ; and, particularly, 
why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered 
over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. 
Among her other love-inspiring qualities she sang sweetly ; and it 
was her favourite reel to which I attempted giving an embodied 
vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that 
I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men that had 
Greek and Latin ; but my girl sang a song which was said to be 
composed by a country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Xlll 

whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme 
as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep and cast 
peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar- 
craft than myself. Thus with me hegan love and poetry." Does not 
this give tenfold interest to 

O, once I loved a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

The fire once kindled, ceased not to hum ; almost all his earlier 
pieces were inspired, not by ethereal goddesses, but substantial 
charms, invested by the genius of the poet with a celestial radiance. 
They are the genuine feelings of the heart exhibited in glowing verse. 

The youthful lover, "to give his manners a brush," as he ex- 
presses it, ventured on his father's displeasure, and went to a dancing 
school. The displeasure was, however, transient, and his father 
suffered the rest of his family to attend during the second month. 
In his nineteenth year, Burns attended a mathematical school at 
Kirkoswald : but here we must again refer to his letter to Dr. 
Moore. "A circumstance," says he, "which made some altera- 
tion in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth 
summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a 
noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in 
which I made a good progress. But I made a greater progress in 
mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, 
and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried 
it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till 
this time new to me; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken 
squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till 
the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my 
bosom, when a charming Jittetle, who lived next door to the school, 
overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the 
sphere of my studies. I however struggled on with my sines and 
cosines for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one 
charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 
like 

'Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower.' 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The 
remaining weeks I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights 
of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image 
of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was 
enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and 
Shenstone's works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and 
I engaged several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary cor- 
respondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had 
met with a collection of letters by the wits of queen Anne's reign , 
and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my 
own letters that pleased me; and a comparison between them 



XIV MEMOIR OF THE 

and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered my 
vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three far- 
things' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought 
me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- 
book and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third 
year. Vive V amour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of 
action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me 
great pleasure ; Sterne and Mackenzie — Tristram Shandy and The 
Man of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a dar- 
ling walk for my mind ; but it was only indulged according to the 
humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on 
hand ; I took up one or the other as it suited the momentary tone 
of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My 
passions, once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they found 
vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, 
soothed all into quiet." 

In this letter there is much of disturbed and unsatisfactory reflec- 
tion on by-gone hours. It is explained by another passage from his 
letters, in which the workings of his mind are forcibly displayed. 
" The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I saw my 
father's situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The only two 
openings by which I could enter the temple of Fortune were, 
the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little chicaning 
bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I could, 
never squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always hated— there was 
contamination in the very entrance. Thus abandoned of aim or 
view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from 
native hilarity as from a pride of observation and remark : a consti- 
tutional melancholy or hypochondriacism that made me fly from 
solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for 
bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of 
thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will 
not seem surprising that I was generally a welcome guest where 
I visited, or any great wonder that, always when two or three met 
together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses 
of my heart, was un penchant pour Vadorable moitie du genre 
humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted 
up by some goddess or other : and, as in every other warfare in this 
world, my fortune was various; sometimes I was received with 
favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the 
plough, scythe, or reaping-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I 
set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent my evenings 
in the way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on 
a love adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a 
curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as a 
proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say I felt as much 
pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves in the parish of 
Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the 
courts in Europe." 

Thus passed the Poet's life till the year 1781 , when he went to 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XV 

Irvine to learn the trade of a flax-dresser. His father entertained 
the idea of devoting the whole or great part of his farm, to the cul- 
tivation of flax ; and to keep as much of the profits as possible in the 
family, he wished to breed his eldest son up as a flax-dresser. But 
this scheme fell to the ground. In a New-year's carousal the shop 
took fire and was burnt to ashes, and Burns returned to Lochlea. 

His residence at Irvine, although not of long continuance, pro- 
duced a very unfavourable effect upon him, and to this period of 
his life may be traced the formation of those habits of convivial 
intemperance which he subsequently indulged. ' ' He contracted 
some acquaintance," says his brother Gilbert, " of a freer manner 
of thinking and living, than he had been used to ; whose society 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which 
had hitherto restrained him." He became a Freemason, and was 
a constant attendant at the convivial meetings of the brethren at 
Irvine and Tarboltom Company was a relief to the hypochon- 
driacal melancholy which preyed upon him. He evidently felt 
his own powers within him ; he had achieved a sort of reputation 
of superior ability among his neighbours, but he wanted a field for 
exertion ; he had no aim in life, and, forced back upon himself, he 
almost despaired. A letter to his father, written only a few days 
before the accident which put an end to his flax-dressing scheme, is 
extant. ' It exhibits a mournful picture of his situation at Irvine, 
where he possessed a single room for his lodging, subsisted chiefly 
on oatmeal sent him from his father's house, and passed his days 
in flax- dressing. It is as follows : — 

" Honoured Sir, — I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope 
that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day : 
but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent 
on that account. My health is nearly the same as when you were 
here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on the whole I am rather 
better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The 
weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare 
neither review past wants nor look forward into futurity, for the 
least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
effects on my whole frame. Sometimes indeed, when for an hour or 
two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity • 
but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable, employment is 
looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I 
am quite transported at the thought that, ere long, perhaps very soon, 
I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and 
disquietudes, of this weary life, for I assure you I am heartily tired 
of it ; and if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly 
and gladly resign it. 

' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason that I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, 
and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations*, than with any 

* 15th. Therefore are they hefore the throne of God, and serve him day and 
night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

16th. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore; neither shall the 
sun light on them, nor any heat. 

17th. For the lamh that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and 
ehall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all 
tears from their eyes. 



XVI MEMOIR OF THE 

ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange 
the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this 
world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter 
of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such 
scenes ; indeed, I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this 
life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I 
am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet them. 
I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 
for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were 
too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope 
have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful 
respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; 
and wishing you a merry New-year's-day, I shall conclude. 

" I am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, 

" Robert Burness. 

" P.S.— My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get 
more." 

Shortly before the death of their father, Robert and Gilbert 
jointly took a lease of the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline, con- 
sisting of 1 1 8 acres, at an annual rent of ninety pounds. This they 
did to provide a shelter for their parents from the impending storm ; 
but William Burness died before the family could remove. After his 
death, what relics could be gathered from the wreck of their fortunes 
were carefully collected, and the family was established at Mossgiel. 
" It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole 
family," says Gilbert, " and was a joint concern among us. Every 
member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he 
performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was 
seven pounds per annum each. . And during the whole time this 
family concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the 
preceding period at Lochlea, Robert's expenses never, in any one 
year, exceeded his slender income." 

Burns went to Mossgiel with the full determination of applying 
all his energies to his farm, and for two seasons he appears to have 
done so ; but this period of his life was marked by an event which 
did not testify much improvement in the habits of the Poet. This 
was the birth of an illegitimate child, his " sonsie, smirking, dear- 
bought Bess," the offspring of one of his mother's servants, by no 
means attractive in her person. For this misdemeanor he was called 
to account by the Kirk Session, and he and the partner of his guilt 
were condemned to the cutty stool. The poet revenged himself 
by witty rhymes, and, it is to be feared, was not benefited by the 
ecclesiastical scourge. 

Whilst at Tarbolton, Burns and his brother, and some other 
young men of the parish, established a society, which they called 
the Bachelors' Club, meeting one evening in every month for the 
purposes of mutual entertainment and improvement. The question 
proposed at one meeting was debated at the next ; and, to prevent 
all intemperance, the expenditure of each party was limited to three- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XV11 

pence. On their removal to Mossgiel they established a similar 
society at Mauchline, but here they more wisely devoted all fines 
and subscriptions to the purchase of books, and soon obtained a 
pretty good stock. The exercise which these debating societies 
afforded him, and constant practice in parties of all sorts, into which 
his eager spirit led him, contributed to perfect the brilliant con- 
versational powers for which he was afterwards so celebrated : 
with which he fascinated not only the hard-drinking members of 
a Mason's Lodge, but gentlemen and philosophers ; not only the 
rustic maiden but the high-born lady ; Ranken and Dugald Stewart ; 
Mary Campbell and the Duchess of Gordon *. 

His best poems were produced during his residence at Mossgiel, 
a period of four years : but he first attracted general notice as a Poet, 
by his satires ; which were called forth by a schism at that time 
agitating the Kirk of Scotland, and distinguished as the contro- 
versy between the Old and New Lights. "The Holy Tuilzie, or 
the Twa Herds;" "Holy Willie's Prayer," and " The Ordination," 
followed each other in rapid succession, and were universally 
sought after. Even reverend clergymen, professors of the New Light, 
scrupled not to praise "Holy Willie's Prayer;" which has been 
described by Sir Walter Scott, as " a piece of satire more exquisitely 
severe than any which Burns ever afterwards wrote, but daringly 
profane." About this time he discarded the ancient spelling of his 
name, and began to write Burns instead of Burness ; no reason for 
this change has been assigned, but it was probably occasioned by 
his desire to be distinguished from others of his own name. 

His growing poetical reputation introduced him into more ex- 
tended society. With Gavin Hamilton, a writer (attorney) of 
Mauchline, under whom the farm of Mossgiel was held ; Mr.Aitken, 
a writer in Ayr, and several other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, 
he was on intimate terms ; and we have already noticed the appro- 
bation the New Light clergy bestowed upon his works, and, in con- 
sequence, upon himself. 

His times and modes of composition were not regular. Wherever 
he might be, if the idea presented itself, he pursued it ; frequently 
he would weave the fancy which had suggested itself into a stanza, 
and at a future period compose the commencement or ending of the 
poem : so that it not unfrequently happened that the middle portion 
was the first composed. His " Mountain Daisy," and " The Mouse," 
were composed while holding the plough ; and " Death and Doctor 
Hornbook," whilst sitting " easing his shanks" on the road-side, 
"by Willie's Mill," on his return from a Mason meeting, where the 
redoubted Doctor had made himself too conspicuous. " Man was 
made to mourn," " The Cotter's Saturday Night," "Hallowe'en," 
and many others of his best productions, were the fruit of this 
period. 

During his residence at Mossgiel, he formed an acquaintance 
with Mary Campbell, a Highland lassie, whose name is rendered 

* This lady said that Burns, in his address to the ladies, was extremely de- 
ferential, and always with a turn to the pathetic or the humorous which won 
their attention ; and added, with much naivete", that she never met with a 
man whose conversation carried her so completely off her feet — Cunningham's 
Life of Burns. 

b 



XVI11 MEMOIR OF THE 

immortal as his Highland Mary, To her he addressed the lines, 
" Will ye go to the Indies., my Mary ?" "Ye hanks and hraes, and 
st reams around the castle of Montgomery," and many others ; and 
her memory, years after her death, when Burns was married and 
had a family, inspired those pathetic lines "To Mary in Heaven," 
which "breathe the soul of tender melancholy. She was a servant 
at Castle Montgomery; and Burns had long courted her, in the 
fashion of the country ; their marriage had been determined on, 
when death stepped in, and Masted the fond hopes of the lovers. 

" After a pretty long time of the most ardent reciprocal feeling," 
says Burns, in a note to one of his poems on Mary, "we met by 
appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot 
hy the hanks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell 
hefore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters 
among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of 
the autumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, 
where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant 
fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave, hefore I could even 
hear of her illness." The love which Burns felt for Mary Campbell, 
appears to have been deeper than any he ever felt before or after ; 
for there is every reason to believe that he was acquainted, nay, too 
intimately acquainted, with Jean Armour, his future wife, during 
the life-time of Mary. He does not appear to have entertained any 
idea of going to America, till the last year of his residence at Moss- 
giel, and it would seem that the unfortunate result of his intercourse 
with Jean Armour was the cause of that determination; yet he 
addresses " Will ye go to the Indies," to Mary, and her last act is to 
come to meet him at Greenock, from whence the vessel which was 
to transport him, sailed; years afterwards, we find the lover bewail- 
ing his lost Mary in the most touching strains. In this digression 
we have somewhat anticipated our story. We must now give an 
account of the Poet's connexion with Jean Armour, an event 
which regulated the destinies of his life. This young lady was 
the daughter of a respectable man, a master mason and builder, 
in Mauchline, and was distinguished by considerable personal 
attractions. She fell " a prey to Rob Mossgiel," notwithstanding 
the warning he had himself given,* and the result of their in- 
tercourse soon became apparent. The intelligence nearly drove 
Burns distracted. His plighted faith given to one, and honour 
calling on him to rescue another, he resolved to fly the country. 
To his friend, James Smith, of Mauchline, his confidant in this 
amour, he thus wrote : " Against two things I am fixed as fate — 
staying at home and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven 
I will not do .'—the last, by hell, I will never do !— A good God bless 
you, and make you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of 
parting friendship .... If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, 
so help me God in my hour of need." 

The whole of this affair is left in obscurity, and by some it has 
been believed that Mary was dead before the poet's acquaintance 
with Jean ; but, for the reasons before stated, we differ in our 

* See " O leave hcv^!s 5 ye Mauchline belles." 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XIX 

opinion, and are inclined to believe that Mary's death happened at 
this critical moment. The vehemence of expression used by Burns 
in the letter just quoted cannot well be accounted for, otherwise 
than by his existing bonds to Mary. She died ; the poet met the 
unhappy Jean, and gave her a written acknowledgment of mar- 
riage, sufficient, by the Scottish law, to legalise the tie. But when 
a disclosure of her condition was no longer to be avoided, her father, 
a man of stern disposition, an elder adhering to the old light, and 
probably from that cause the more incensed against Burns, whose 
character he detested, refused to give his consent to the marriage, 
obliged his daughter to give up the precious "lines," the sole evidence 
she possessed to redeem her honour ; he destroyed the document, 
and forced his child to disown him who was her husband in the 
sight of both God and man. Under these singular circumstances 
she became the mother of twins. 

Burns, — who had done all in his power to soften the obdurate 
father ; who had declared his readiness even to toil as a day- 
labourer for the support of his wife and family, if his proposal 
to go to Jamaica and remit them the proceeds of his exertions 
were rejected,— finding all his efforts vain, resumed his purpose 
of emigration. He procured the situation of assistant overseer on 
the estate of a Dr. Douglas in Jamaica. But now a fresh difficulty 
arose. He had not the means of paying his passage. For the first 
time the thought suggested itself, that his poems might be made 
a source of profit. His friends, especially Hamilton and Aitken, 
warmly seconded his proposition. A negotiation with a printer at 
Kilmarnock was opened, and an edition of six hundred copies, three 
hundred and fifty of which were subscribed for, was printed. It 
was rapidly disposed of, and Byrns found himself, after paying all 
expenses, master of nearly twenty pounds. This success did not 
cause him to change his resolution. He was pursued by the parish 
officers for security against the charge of his illegitimate children, 
and was driven into hiding. He had taken leave of all his friends, 
and his chest was on the road to Greenock ; he had composed the 
last song he should ever measure in Caledonia, " The gloomy 
night is gathering fast," when he received a letter, written by Dr. 
Thomas Blacklock, of Edinburgh, to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudon, 
who, unknown to Burns, had forwarded a copy of the poems to 
Dr. Blacklock, whose reputation as a critic stood high, and who was 
himself a poet. This letter, which was full of kindness and encou- 
ragement, raised up those hopes which had still been drooping, 
although his Kilmarnock edition had introduced him to the acquaint- 
ance of Dugald Stewart, Mrs. Dunlop, and several others, who ever 
afterwards were his friends. But Dr. Blacklock's praise roused up 
his slumbering hopes ; he at once gave up all idea of leaving Scot- 
land, and hastened to Edinburgh. 

When he reached that city, he sought out some of his Ayrshire 
friends, and took up his lodgings with Mr. Richmond, at that time 
a writer's apprentice, or, in English phrase, an attorney's articled 
clerk: he shared the humble accommodations of this young man, a 
single room and a single bed, during the greater part of his stay in 
the capital. He did not hastily seek the introduction to Dr. Black - 
b 2 



XX MEMOIR OF THE 

lock, or the publicity which he felt would he the consequence. 
He had hurried to Edinburgh, but on the threshold of fame he 
paused with modest trembling. There can be no doubt, that, from 
the society into which his Kilmarnock edition had introduced 
him, including more than one titled head, he in some degree 
anticipated the kind of reception he was likely to meet with, and 
that there was a shrinking on his part to put himself forward. 
He was stimulated by a letter from Dr. Laurie. He visited Dr. 
Blacklock ; he was introduced to Lord Glencairn, who proved a good 
friend ; and in a little space found himself the lion of Edinburgh. 
His society, or perhaps rather his presence, was sought after eagerly 
by the highest companies of Edinburgh. Lord Glencairn easily 
induced €reech, the chief bookseller in the city, to undertake an 
edition of the poems formerly published, to which Burns now made 
many additions. The terms of his bargain with Creech were that 
the poet should receive one hundred pounds for the copyright of 
one edition, and the profits of all the subscription copies. In the 
course of a few months 2800 and odd copies were subscribed for by 
upwards of 1500 subscribers. He found admirers in all ranks, and 
his name was established on a proud eminence, from which it will 
never descend. 

It has been made a ground of reproach to Burns, that although 
welcomed by the highest, though duchesses bowed down their 
heads to listen to the glowing eloquence which had formerly 
entranced the peasant, yet he gradually withdrew himself from 
society so disproportioned to his rank. It is true he did so ; but he 
who would draw an unfavourable conclusion from the fact, does 
injustice both to the poet and to human nature. We much regret 
that our limits preclude our giving so much of his history, in his 
own words, as would present a more lively view of his situation and 
prospects, hopes and wishes, than it is possible to do in a condensed 
narration. The poet felt, keenly and bitterly, that he was regarded 
as a wonder, almost as a tamed wild beast : those who knew not 
what is the discipline of a Scottish cottage ; who were astonished 
more at the description of the labourer's " Saturday Night," than 
at the genius which displayed that scene in such exquisite verses, 
thought that a ploughman poet was a prodigy, which they flocked 
to see, with a curiosity not much more intellectual than that which 
draws servant-maids and children to stare at a dancing bear. Now 
(it is painful to remember it) not one of his friends suggested to 
Burns any pursuit, any course of life, which might secure for him 
the independence he so much panted after, which if he had secured, 
would have afforded him the leisure which alone he required for 
the production of works surpassing even the unrivalled poems he 
has left. 

Creech's edition appeared in March, 1787, and was eagerly 
bought up ; and the poet feeling himself now authorised to draw 
upon the fruits of his genius, set out on a tour through the 
southern parts of Scotland, and the borders of England. On the 
•8th of June, 1787, he again found himself at Mossgiel : his mother 
met him at the door, and clasping him in her arms, exclaimed 
*'■ Oh, Robert ! "—He had left her house almost an outcast from the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXI 

world — he returned crowned with glory ; the mother's heart was 
full, and she fell on her son's neck and wept. That moment repaid 
the bard for many bitter hours. 

The following summer was chiefly occupied by Burns in some 
tours through the Highlands, in the course of which he visited 
the Dukes of Athole and Gordon, and many other of his friends, 
but nothing with regard to his future prospects was proposed to him 
by any. His intercourse with Jean he desired to renew, but he 
was rudely repulsed from her father's door. He was still without 
an aim. In the autumn he returned to Edinburgh, and he 
remained there till the spring, when he effected a settlement with 
Creech, and found himself the master of about five hundred pounds. 
He now sought for the best means of establishing himself for 
life. The second winter's experience proved that the attractions 
of the lion had vanished, and that the reputation of the bard incited 
none to provide him with even a mean support. It was not without 
reluctance that he addressed himself to the Earl of Glencairn, and 
expressed his wish to be employed in the Excise ; a project which 
had, at the time of the Kilmarnock edition, been agitated by his old 
friends Hamilton and Aitken. None of his new friends had troubled 
themselves about the poet's welfare, and even the Earl of Glencairn 
waited to be asked ; and it was Graham of Fintray, to whom Burns 
had been introduced in his northern tour, who at length procured 
him a poor appointment, worth about thirty-five pounds a year. Mr. 
Miller of Dalswinton had made him the offer of any farm on his 
estate a twelvemonth before ; he now made choice of that of Ellis- 
land in Nithsdale, more with the eye of a poet than that of a 
farmer, for it was about the worst on the estate, but its situation 
was the most picturesque. ' 

Having first sent two hundred pounds to his brother Gilbert to 
assist him in the struggling life he maintained at Mossgiel, he 
settled himself at Ellisland in May 1788, and his first employment 
was to erect a house and farm steading, to do which he was bound 
by the terms of his lease : and to this house, the first he could ever 
call his own, he brought Jean Armour, whom he now publicly 
proclaimed as his wife : she, at this time, probably from her 
renewed intercourse with Burns, was suffering under a fresh out- 
break of paternal anger, and with her helpless children had been 
absolutely turned out of doors ! Burns's manly bosom ^received 
back again with joy the woman whom he had ever strongly 
loved, and whose renunciation of him had therefore caused him 
tenfold pain. As soon as his house was ready, he brought her home ; 
and now he hoped that the prospect before him, though not very 
cheering, would brighten, and that at least no heavy clouds would 
intervene to blast the hopes he cherished. Eight disastrous years 
closed the poet's career ! 

Burns, though in the works of the field equal to the best labourer ; 
though he could challenge the country round at the plough, the 
scythe, or the flail, yet was not a skilful farmer : the attention 
necessary to his avocations in the Excise, in which he was never 
deficient, materially interfered with that due to his own affairs ; and 
the temptations of the muse were stronger than those of the plod- 



XX11 MEMOIR OF THE 

ding duties of a farm. It is not therefore surprising that he found 
Ellisland a losing concern. At the end of 1791 he gave up his farm 
and took a house at Dumfries, his sole dependence heing his 
salary as an excise officer, which now amounted to seventy pounds 
a-year, and which he had every hope of soon seeing increased. In 
this town, and on this humble stipend, he continued to exist, till 
his death. 

The years he spent at Ellisland and Dumfries were not unproduc- 
tive of poetry : for the first year at least of his residence on his 
farm, he enjoyed the pleasures of an independent man, and his soul 
appeared to expand, relieved from the heavy burden of care which 
had hitherto pressed upon him. Before he left Edinburgh, he had 
contributed some pieces to a collection of Scottish songs, published 
by Mr. Johnson, under the title of the " Musical Museum;" and 
to this, and the collection published by Mr. Thomson, he furnished 
a vast number of songs which, had he never written anything else, 
would have established his celebrity. From the time of Creech's 
edition he wrote scarcely any piece of length except Tarn o' Shanter, 
the ivork of one day, but chiefly confined himself to the writing of 
songs and ballads, and the correction and alteration of old songs, for 
these two collections, to which we owe most of those inimitable 
lyrics which will continue to be sung and recited in all quarters 
of the globe, till the English tongue shall cease to be spoken. 

A false pride caused him to decline pecuniary recompense for these 
invaluable productions, and he even made it a ground of quarrel 
with Thomson, who on one occasion forwarded him five pounds 
on account of his services ; and when dying, and pressed by urgent 
want, he was obliged to apply for a further sum, it cost him 
more pangs than can be imagined by any mind not akin to his 
own ; and although so weak that his pen trembled in his hand, he 
forced himself to write the last verses he ever composed, " Fairest 
maid on DevonBanks," and enclosed them in this humiliating epistle. 

The character and conduct of Burns have been made the subject 
of much discussion, not always conducted in the most friendly 
spirit. It is easy for those who have never felt the temptations of 
poverty, to condemn the conduct of others who have writhed beneath 
its pangs. 

Burns was by nature careless, fond of society, — for there he felt his 
powers appreciated, — but of an unbending and independent spirit. 
In prosperity these powers would not improbably have produced 
effects very different from those displayed by the influence of an 
unceasing train of misfortune. In prosperity he might have chosen 
his society — in poverty he had no choice, except at one period of his 
life ; and was it not natural for him to become somewhat shy of 
seeking company,where he was regarded more as a curiosity, than as 
on an equal footing with those he met ? Yet he has been accused of 
shunning the better class of society, towards the end of his first visit 
to Edinburgh. The occasional roughness and vehemence of his 
opposition in debate has been made a plea for the neglect he experi- 
enced. It is an ungenerous one. His feelings of independence, and 
desire to assert them, frequently carried him too far, and sometimes 
assumed the character of almost morbid irritability, but the noble 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXlll 

cause of this was always sufficiently obvious ; and no generous 
mind could have misunderstood the man, who, brought suddenly 
from a lower station, exhibiting powers which astonished his audi- 
tors, and seeing himself regarded as a wonder, instead of servilely 
seeking applause, endeavoured to find opportunities of asserting 
his independence, and dreaded the supposition that he could flatter 
to win favour. 

When Burns left Ellisland, it was not without a pang ; and he 
went to Dumfries with the embittered feelings of a disappointed 
man. Always inclined to social life, he was now more than ever 
exposed, both by the pressing invitation of his near neighbours and 
by the unsatisfied state of his own mind, to indulge more deeply 
than ever in those dissipations and drinking bouts which were the 
fashion of the day. Even in these excesses, which it must be acknow- 
ledged became too habitual, he has been misrepresented ; and by 
many he is to this day considered as having in his latter years given 
himself up to the degrading habits of a confirmed drunkard. Nothing 
can be more contrary to the fact. He never indulged except in 
company ; and, to the end of his life, his conduct towards his 
family, and care of his children's education, were most exemplary ; 
and well would it be for many of those who have regarded Burns 
with scornful pity, if they could produce such good evidence of the 
discharge of that great moral duty as he. Mr. Findlater, his superior 
in the Excise, amongst others, bears honourable testimony to his 
conduct. " My connexion with Burns," he says," commenced im- 
mediately after his admission to the Excise, and continued to the 
hour of his death. In all that time, the superintendence of his 
behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial 
province ; and I was not an inattentive observer of the general con- 
duct of a man and a poet so celebrated by his countrymen. He was 
exemplary in his attention, and was even jealous of any imputa- 
tion on his vigilance. It was not till near the latter end of his days 
that there was any falling off in this respect ; and this was well 
accounted for by the pressure of disease and accumulating infirmi- 
ties. I will further avow that I never saw him — which was very 
frequently while he lived at Ellisland, and still more so, almost 
every day, after he removed to Dumfries — in hours of business, but 
he was quite himself, and capable of discharging the duties of his 
office ; nor was he ever known to drink by himself, or seen to in- 
dulge in the use of liquor in a forenoon. I have seen Burns in all his 
various phases— in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and 
in the bosom of his family. Indeed, I believe I saw more of him 
than any other individual had occasion to see, and I never beheld 
anything like the gross enormities with which he is now charged. 
That, when he sat down in the evening with friends whom he liked, 
he was apt to prolong the social hours beyond the bounds which 
prudence would dictate, is unquestionable ; but in his family, I will 
venture to say, he was never seen otherwise than as attentive and 
affectionate in a high degree." The times, in which an elder of 
the church could, like Mr. Riddel of Friars Carse, engage in such 
a contest as is related in " The Whistle," were more in fault than 
the Poet. 



XXIV MEMOIR OF THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Burns, when he went to Dumfries, had entertained sanguine 
hopes of promotion ; his salary had "been raised to <£70 a year, and 
his name was on the list of supervisors ; the latter situation was 
worth about £200 per arm. and was the stepping-stone to a collector- 
ship, which would have rendered him easy; but his own imprudent 
conduct destroyed these hopes. In the commencement of the French 
revolution, he ardently embraced the doctrines of the liberal party 
of the time, and vehemently advocated the cause of the Directory 
in all companies. His enthusiasm carried him to lengths that his 
better judgment would have disclaimed, and when it was reported 
at head-quarters that an exciseman had refused to stand up in the 
theatre when the National anthem was played, and had sent two 
brass cannon, taken from a smuggler (which he himself assisted in 
capturing) with a complimentary letter to the French Directory, 
they directed an inquiry to'take place, and he was reprimanded and 
told that his business was to act and not to think. This somewhat 
absurd rebuke sunk deep into his heart ; thenceforth he despaired 
of advancement, and grew less careful of himself and his reputation. 
His health began to fail ; and, in the spring of 1796, he was attacked 
with violent rheumatism. He continued to sink, and in the sum- 
mer was advised to go into the country : he went to a lonely place 
called the Brow, on the shore of Solway, in Annandale, to try the 
effect of sea-bathing, but all was of no avail : on the 18th of July 
he returned home a dying man. He lived only to the 22d, and died 
in desolation. Four helpless infants and a wife, who, whilst her 
husband's corpse was being carried down the street, was delivered 
of a fifth child, were left behind him. 

A happier fate awaited his family. Public sympathy was at last 
aroused. A handsome subscription was raised ; and Dr. Currie, of 
Liverpool, collected and published his poems for their benefit. 

The poor child, born in so disastrous an hour, did not long survive ; 
but three other children yet live, and do credit to their illustrious 
sire. The eldest, Robert, holds a situation in the Stamp Office ; 
Francis Wallace, the second, died in 1803 ; William Nicoll, the third, 
went to Madras in 1811, and James Glencairn, the youngest, in 1812 
— both as cadets in the East India Company's service. 

Mrs. Burns, who was enabled to live in comfort for the residue 
of her life, and of whose exemplary conduct as a wife and a mother 
we would, did our limits allow, speak more at large, died in 1834, 
and was buried beside her husband, but not in his original grave, 
his body having been removed, in 1815, to a mausoleum raised to 
his memory. May the earth lie light on them ; and may we seek 
rather to profit by the example of their virtues, than to triumph 
over their errors ! 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Winter, a Dirge . , .1 
Death & Dying Words of Poor 

Mailie . . . . . 2 

Poor Mailie's Elegy . . 3 
First Epistle to Davie . . . 5 
Address to the De'il . . 9 
The Auld Farmer's New-year 

Morning Salutation to his 

Auld Mare Maggie . . 12 

To a Haggis . . . .15 

A Prayer in the Prospect of 

Death . . . .16 
Stanzas on the same occasion 17 
A Prayer under the Pressure 

of violent Anguish . ; ib. 
A Winter Night . . 18 

The Jolly Beggars, a Cantata . 21 
Death and Dr. Hornbook . . 30 
The Kirk's Alarm . . 35 

The Twa Herds , . . 37 

Holy Willie's Prayer . . 40 
Epitaph on Holy Willie . 42 

Lament of Mary, Queenof Scots 43 
The Holy Fair . . 44 

The Ordination . . . 50 

The Calf . . . .53 

To James Smith, Mauchline . 54 
The Vision . . . .58 

Man was made to Mourn . . 65 
To Ruin . . . .67 
Letter to John Goudie . . 68 
Epistle to J. Lapraik . . 69 
To the Same . . . . 72 
To William Simpson, Ochiltree 75 
To J. Lapraik . . .80 

To the Rev. John M'Math. . 81 
To a Mouse . . . 84 

Scotch Drink . . . . 85 



PAGE 

The Author's earnest Cry and 
Prayer to the Scotch Repre- 
sentatives . . . . 88 
Hallowe'en . . . .93 

Address to the Unco Gude . 1 01 
Tarn Samson's Elegy . . 103 
Per Contra . . . . 105 

Second Epistle to Davie . 106 
Lament . . . . 107 

Despondency, an Ode . . 109 
The Cotter's Saturday Night 111 
First Six Verses of Psalm XC.116 
Verses left at a Friend's Housell7 
To a Mountain Daisy . . ib. 
Epistle to a young' Friend .119 
To a Louse. . . .121 

Epistle to John Rankine . . 1 22 
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the 

West Indies . . .124 
Dedicationto G.Hamilton,Esq.l26 
Elegy on Robert Ruisseaux 129 
Letter to J. Tait, Glenconne r 130 
On the Birth of a Posthumous 

Child 131 

To Miss Cruikshank . .132 
The First Psalm . .133 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 134 
To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen- 

Gillan . . . .135 

To a Tailor . . . .136 

A Dream 137 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale . . 141 
Interview with Lord Daer . 147 
Address to Edinburgh . . 148 
A Bard's Epitaph . . . 150 
The Brigs of Ayr . .151 

The Dean of Faculty, a Ballad 157 
To an old Sweetheart . .158 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Death of John M'Leod, Esq. 158 
Clarinda . . .159 

To Miss Logan . . . ib. 

A Fragment . . .160 

To theGuidwife of Wauchope- 

House . . . .162 

Humble Petition of Bruar- 

Water 164 

On Searing some Water-fowl 166 
Verses written under the Por- 
trait of Fergusson,the Poet 167 
To a Lady, with the present of 

a pair of Drinking-glasses . ib. 
Written with a Pencil in the 
Parlour of the Inn at Ken- 
mure .... 168 
Written with a Pencil, stand- 
ing by the Fall of Fyers . 169 
Poetical Address to Mr. Wil- 
liam Tytler, of Woodhouse- 
lee . . . . .ib. 

Written in Friars-Carse Her- 
mitage . . 170 
Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. . 172 
To Captain Riddel, Glenriddel 174 
A Mother's Lament for the 

Death of her Son . . . ib. 

Verses on the Death of Sir 

James Hunter Blair . . ] 75 
Elegy on the Year 1788 . 176 
Address to the Tooth -ache . 177 
Ode to the Memory of Mrs, 

Oswald . . .178 

Scots Prologue' . . .179 

On seeing a wounded Hare . 1 31 
Prologue spoken at the The- 
atre, Dumfries . . . ib. 
Delia, an Ode . . 182 
Fragment inscribed to C. J. 

Fox 183 

To Dr. Blacklock . .184 

Sketch— New Year's Day . 185 
To a Gentleman who had sent 

Burns a Newspaper . 187 

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Hen- 
derson . . . .188 
The Five Carlines, an Election 

Ballad . . . .191 

Answer to a Mandate sent by 
the Surveyor of Taxes . .194 



PAGE 

Tarn O'Shanter . . . 196 

On the late Capt. Grose's Pere- 
grinations through Scotland 201 

Written in a Wrapper enclos- 
ing a Letter to Capt. Grose 203 

Verses to Chloris . . 204 

The Whistle, a Ballad . . 205 

Lament for James, Earl of 
Glencairn . . . 207 

Lines sent to Sir John White- 
foord with the foregoing . 209 

Poem addressed to Mr. Mit- 
chell 210 

Extempore in the Court of 
Session . . . .211 

Address to the Shade of Thom- 
son . . . . .ib. 

To Robert Graham, Esq., Fin- 
tray . . . .212 

To the Same, on receiving a 
Favour . . . . 214 

A Vision . . . .215 

To John Maxwell, of Ter- 
raughty . . . .216 

Poetical Inscription for an 
Altar to Independence . . ib. 

The Rights of Woman . .217 

Monody on a Lady famed for 
her Caprice . . .218 

On Pastoral Poetry , . . ib. 

Sonnet on the Death of Robert 
Riddel, Esq., of Glen-riddel 220 

Sonnet written on the Birth- 
day of the Author . . ib. 

Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's 
Birth-day . . . . 221 

The Vowels, a Tale . . ib. 

Liberty, a Fragment . . 222 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, 
ofMonboddo . . .223 

Address, spoken by MissFon- 
tenelle . . . . 224 

Verses to a Young Lady . 225 

To a Young Lady . . . ib. 

Verses to J. Rankine . . 226 

To Mrs. Dunlop . . . ib. 

To Colonel De Peyster . . 227 

Lines sent to a Gentleman 
whom he had offended . 228 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c. :— 



PAGE 

For the Author's Father . 229 

Inscription to the Memory of 
Fergusson . . . . ib. 

For R. A., Esq. . > . ib. 

On a Friend . . . . ib. 

On Wee Johnny . . .230 

On John Dove . . . . ib. 

For Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . ib. 

On a celebrated Ruling Elder ib. 

On a Noisy Polemic . . ib. 

On a Writer in Dumfries . 231 

On a Schoolmaster . . ib. 

On a Hen - pecked Country 
Squire . . . . . ib. 

On the Same . . . ib. 

On the Same . . . ib. 

On Wat 232 

On Captain Francis Grose . ib. 

On a Wag in Mauchline . . ib. 

On a Country Laird . . ib. 

Lines on Mrs. Kemble . . 233 

To Mr. Syme, in Answer to 
an Invitation to join a Din- 
ner Party • . , . ib. 

To Mr. Syme, with a Present 
of a Dozen of Porter . . ib. 

On Hearing that there was a 
Falsehood in the Rev. Dr. 
B — 's looks . . . ib. 



On Elphinstone's Translations 
of Martial's Epigrams . 233 

On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr . . 234 

Written on a Window of the 
Globe Tavern, Dumfries . ib. 

On seeing the beautiful Seat 
of Lord Galloway . . 78 

On the Same . . . . ib. 

To the Same, on being threat- 
ened with his Resentment . ib. 

On being asked why God made 
Miss Davies so little, and 
Mrs. so large . . 235 

Written at Inverary . . . ib. 

A Highland Welcome . . ib. 

Written in a Lady's Pocket 
Book . . . .., . . ib. 

The Creed of Poverty .- . ib. 

Verses written on a Window 
of the Inn at Carron . . 236* 

On being appointed to the Ex- 
cise . . . . . ib. 

Written on a Window at the 
King's Arms Tavern, Dum- 
fries . . . . ib. 

A Grace before Dinner . 236 

Extempore . . ■ . . 237 

Extempore Lines . . . ib. 

The Hen-peck'd Husband . . ib, 



SONGS AND BALLADS :- 



Handsome Nell . . . 238 

Bonnie Lesley . . . . 239 

Fragment . . . ib. 

Tibbie, I ha'e seen the Day . 240 
I Dream'd I lay where Flowers 

were springing . . 241 

Luckless Fortune . . ib. 

The Highland Lassie . . 242 

John Barleycorn . . . 243 
Montgomerie's Peggy . . 244 

The Rigs o' Barley . . 245 
My Father was a Farmer . 246 



Song composed in August . 248 
The Rantin'Dog the Daddie o't 249 
O leave Novels . . , ib. 

Nannie .... 250 
Forlorn my Love, no Comfort 

near . . . . . 251 
Her Flowing Locks . . . ib. 

There's nought but Care . 252 
Robin .... 253 

Bonnie Peggy Alison . . 254 
My Jean . . . . ib. 

Young Peggy . . . . 255 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

On Cessnock Banks . . 256 
Mary . . . .257 

The Cure for axl Care . . 258 
Menie . . . .259 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle . . 260 
The Farewell . . .261 

Whistle, and I'll come to You, 

my Lad . . . .262 

Eliza ih. 

I am my Mammy's ae Bairn 263 
The Author'sFarewelltohis 

Native Country . . 264 

Bonnie Lassie, will ye go . . 265 
The Young Highland Rover ih. 
M'Pherson's Farewell . . 266 

Thickest Night, o'erhang my 

Dwelling . . .267 

Up in the Morning early . . ib. 
Blithe was She . . .268 

Stay, my Charmer . . . ib. 

The Banks of the Devon . . 269 
Raving Winds around her 

Blowing . . . ib. 

How Long and Dreary is the 

Night . . . . . 270 

A Rose-bud by my Early Walk ib. 

were I on Parnassus' Hill . 271 
Streams that Glide . . . 272 
Tibbie Dunbar . . . ib. 
Musing on the Roaring Ocean 273 
Where braving Angry Win- 
ter's Storms . . . ib. 

My Harry . . . . 274 

My Bonnie Mary . . ib. 

Blooming Nelly . . . 275 

Of a' the Airts the Wind can 

Blaw . . . .276 

The Day returns, my Bosom 

burns . . . . . ib. 

The Lazy Mist . . .277 
My Heart 's in the Highlands ib. 
Beware o' Bonnie Ann . . 278 
First when Maggie was my 

Care . . . , ib. 

Ca' the Ewes . . .279 
There's a Youth in this City 281 
John Anderson my Jo . 280 

Willie Brew'd a Peck o'Maut ib. 
To Mary in Heaven . . . 282 

The Battle of Sheriff-Muir . 283 

1 gaed aWaefu' Gate, Yestreen 284 



My Heart is a-breaking, Dear 

Tittie 285 

Young Jockey . . . 286 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle . . ib. 
Craigie-burn Wood . . 287 
Gane is the Day . . . ib. 

Meikle Thinks my Love . . 288 
The Banks of Nith . . ib. 

What can a Young Lassie . 289 
The Bonnie Wee Thing . . ib. 
Yon Wild Mossy Mountains. 290 
How can I be Blithe and Glad ib. 
Wha is that at my Bower 

Door? . . . .291 

There '11 never be Peace . 292 
I do Confess Thou art saeFair ib. 
O Saw Ye my Dearie . . 293 

Naebody . . . . ib. 

Chloris . . . .294 

Ae Fond Kiss . . . . ib. 
O for Ane-and-Twenty, Tarn 295 
Bess and her Spinning-wheel 296 
Sic a Wife as Willie had . 297 
Song of Death . . . 298 

As I was a-Wandering . 
O Luve will venture in 
Country Lassie 
Jockey's ta'en the parting 

Kiss 
The Chevalier's Lament 
The Banks o' Doon, First Ver- 
sion . . . .302 
The Banks o' Doon, Second 



ib. 



300 



301 
ib. 



Version . . . . ib. 

Fair Eliza . . . .303 

Flow gently, sweet Afton . 304 

Bonnie Bell . . . . ib . 

The Gallant Weaver . . 305 

Out over the Forth . . . ib. 

The Bairns gat out . . . 306 

She 's Fair and Fause . . ib. 

The Exciseman . . . 307 

The Battle of Culloden . ib. 

A Red, Red Rose . . 308 

Polly Stewart . . . ib. 

For the Sake of Somebody . 309 

I'll ay Ca' in by yon Town . ib. 

When Januar' Wind . . 310 

OMay, thy Morn . .311 
O wat ye Wha's in yon Town 312 
Louis, what Reck I by Thee . 313 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Anna, thy Charms . . . 313 

To Thee, loved Nith . . ib. 

Wae is my Heart . . . 314 

Gloomy December . . ib. 

Cassillis' Banks . . . 315 

Amang the Trees . . . ib. 

My Peggy's Face . .316 

The Winsome Wee Thing . ib. 
My Lady's Gown, there's 

Gairs upon't . . .317 

Highland Mary . . . 318 

Duncan Gray . . .319 

Auld Rob Morris . . 320 
The Gowden Locks of Anna . ib. 

My ain Kind Dearie, O . 321 

To Mary Campbell . . . 322 

O Poortith Cauld . . ib. 

Oh! Open the Door to Me . 323 

Wandering Willie . . 324 

Galla Water . . . . ib. 
She says She Lo'es me best of a'325 

Lord Gregory . . .326 

Mary Morison . . . ib. 

Meg o' the Mill . . 327 
When wild War's deadly 

Blast was blawn . . 328 

Jessie . . . . . 329 

Fragment . . . . 330 

Miss Lesley Baillie . .' ib. 

Logan Water . . 331 

Bonnie Jean . . . . 332 

Phillis the Fair . . .333 

Had I a Cave . . . . 334 

Auld Lang Syne . . . ib. 

By Allan Stream . . 335 

Adown Winding Nith . . 336 

Come, let me take Thee . . 337 

Behold the Hour . . ib. 

Dainty Davie . . . . 338 

Thou hast left me ever . . ib. 
Deluded Swain, the Pleasure 339 

Nancy . . . . ib. 

Fair Jenny . . . 340 

Wilt thou be my Dearie ? . ib. 

Bannockburn . . . . 341 
Husband, husband, cease your 

Strife 342 

On the Seas and Far Away . 343 



The Lover's Morning Salute 

to his Mistress . . . 344 

But lately Seen . . . ib. 

Ca' the Yowes . . . 345 
O ay my Wife she dang me . 346 
To Mary . . . . ib. 

Here is the Glen . . .347 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face ib. 
Lovely Davies . . . . 348 

Saefarawa' . . . 349 

Let not Woman e'er Complain ib. 

Chloe 350 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks ib. 
Farewell, thou Stream . 351 

O Philly, happy be that Day 352 
O wha is She that Lo'es me . 353 
Contented wi' little . . 354 

Canst Thou Leave Me Thus ib. 
My Nannie's awa' . . . 355 
To General Dumourier . . ib. 
Here's a Health . . . 356 
Caledonia .... 357 
O lay thy Loof in mine, Lass ib. 
Caledonia . . . .358 
O Lassie, art Thou sleeping 

yet . . . . . 359 

Her Answer . . , . 360 
Saw Ye my Phely . . ib. 
Is there, for Honest Poverty 361 
To Mr. Cunningham . . 362 
Address to the Woodlark » . 363 
How Cruel are the Parents . ib. 
Chloris . . . .364 

This is no my ain Lassie . . ib. 
On Chloris being 111 . . 365 

The Dumfries Volunteers . 366 
Last May a Braw Wooer . 367 
The tither Morn . . .368 
O Bonnie was yon Rosy Brier 369 
There was a Bonnie Lass . ib. 
Coming through the Rye . 370 
Altho' Thou maun never be 

Mine . . . . ib. 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 371 
'Twas na her Bonnie Blue Een 372 
To Charlotte Hamilton . ib. 

Fragments . . . . 373 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



EOBEET BUKNS. 



WINTER : A DIRGE. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw , 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw ; 
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bM and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast*," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine. 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (0, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !), 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign ! 

* Dr. Young. 
B 



BURNS S POEMS, 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 
POOR MAILIE, 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

An unco mourn/a' Tale. 



As Mailie and her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
And owre she warsled in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc* he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand endit, 
But, waes my heart ! he cou'dna mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak' I 
At length poor Mailie silence brak' : 

" thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
And bear them to my Master dear : 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
! bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair, 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
And let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o ? lambs and packs o' woo'. 

a Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
And aye was gude to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gi'e him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

ei 0, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives I 
But gi'e them gude cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themseF ; 
And tent them duly, e'en and morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn. 

* A neighbour herd-callan. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

* And may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, and reave and steal 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come thro' the shears : 
So wives will gi'e them bits o' bread, 
And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
And if he live to be a beast, 

To pit some havins in his breast ; 
And warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
And no' to rin and wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" And neist, my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop I 
But aye keep mind to moop and mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 leave my blessin' wi' you baith ; 
And when you think upon your mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether ; 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And closed her een amang the dead ! 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 



Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 

Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 

Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie 's dead! 
b 2 



4 BURNS S POEMS. 

It's no the loss o' warld's gear 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak' our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed ; 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam' nigh him. 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wot she was a sheep o' sense, 
And could behave hersel' wi' mense ; 
I'll say't, she never brak' a fence 

Thro' thievish greed ; 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the ho we, 
Her living image, in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' muirland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips ; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed ! 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie's dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks gude fellows girn and gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonny Doon ! 

And wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 

Come, join the melancholious croon 

0' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE*, 

A BROTHER POET. 



January , 1784. 
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In namely westlin' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla-lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less, 
Their roomy fire-side; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shared ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Though we ha'e little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na^," 
Auld Age ne'er mind a leg ; 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 

When banes are crazed, and blude is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could mak' us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 

* David Sillar, schoolmaster, one of the cluh at Tarholton, an 
author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect, 
t Ramsay. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However Fortune kick the ha', 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mail' then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What tho' like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall 1 
Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
Wi' honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes, when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin' muckle mair : 
It's no in books, its no in lair, 

To make us truly blest : 
If Happiness ha'e not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay 

That makes us right or wrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglectin' a' that's gude, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale I 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, ha'e met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gi'e the wit o' age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel' ; 
They mak' us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae ither where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts, 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest,) 
This life has joys for you and I, 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy, 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye ha'e your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name ; 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame. 

O, all ye Pow'rs, who rule above ! 
O, Thou, whose very self art Love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 

When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief, 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, all-seeing, 

O hear my fervent. pray 'r ! 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens, 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin' rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp. 
And rin an unco fit ; 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



ADDRESS TO THE DETL. 



O Prince ! G Chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led the embattled Seraphim to war. 

Milton. 

O Thou, whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a de'il, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 

And hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame, 
Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
And tho' yon lowan heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
And faith, thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, rangin' like a roarin' lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my rev'rend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray, 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman, 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ! 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin' 

Wi' heavy groan ! 



10 BURNS S POEMS. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter, night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the loch ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 

Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 

When wi 5 an eldritch stoor, quaick — quaick— 

Amang the springs 
Awa' ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags 

Wi' wicked speed, 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witchin' skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak' great abuse 

On young gudeman, fond, keen, and crouse ; 

When the best wark-loom i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
And float the jinglin' icy boord, 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord 

By your direction, 
And 'nighted travelers are allured 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 



BURNS S POEMS. 11 

When Masons' mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise ye up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to kell ! 
The youngest Brither ye wad whup 

Aff straight to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
And a' the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawin' dog ! 

Ye cam' to Paradise incog., 

And play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz ? 
Wi' reekit duds and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
And sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
And brak him out o' house and hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
And lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scawl ? 

Was warst ava ! 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares and fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinking 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin' 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinkin', 

And cheat you yet. 

* Vide Milton, Book vi. 



12 BURNS S POEMS. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak' a thought and men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still ha'e a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR 3IORNING 
SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL 
IN THE NEW-YEAR. 



A G-ude New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could ha'e gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dapplet, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank, 
And set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er trod yird ; 
And could ha'e flown out-owre a stank 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere, 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

And fifty mark : 
Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

And thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But namely, tawie, quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

That day .ye pranced wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonny bride : 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, 
And wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels and win', 
And ran them till they a' did wauble 

Far, far behin'. 

When thou and I were young and skeigh, 

And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, and snort, and skreigh, 

And tak' the road, 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fallow, 

For pith and speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

And gar't them whaizle ; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

0' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan' 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 

Aft thee and I, in aught hours' gaun, 

In gude March weather, 
Ha'e turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
And spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith and power, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, 

An' slypet owre. 



1 4 BURNS S POEMS. 

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, 
And threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad ha'e faced it ; 

Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa\ 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell'd awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund and twa, 

The very warst. 

Mony a sair darg we twa ha'e wrought, 
And wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
And mony an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin', 
And thy auld days may end in starvin', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

With sma' fatigue. 



BURNS S POEMS. 15 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm ; 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic Labour dight, 
And cut you up wi' ready sleight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight ! 

Warm-reekin', rich. 

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
De'il tak' the hindmost ! on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve, 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

how unfit ! 



16 BURNS S POEMS. 

But mark the rustic haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak' it whistle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thristle. 

Ye powers, wha mak' mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear, 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaps, I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudly in my breast 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou, All- Good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But — Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



BURNS S POEMS. 17 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 



Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene % 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms % 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ! 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence ! " 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ! 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran ! 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist e'en me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 



Thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 
c 



18 BURNS S POEMS. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 
All wretched and distrest ; 

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
0, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 
To suit some wise design ; 

Then man my soul with firm resolves 
To bear and not repine 1 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 

From seasons such as these ? 

Shakspeare. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glow'r 

Far south the lift — 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,^ 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning the doors and winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

0' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lay'ring, sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 



BURNS S POEMS. 19 

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

And close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exiled, 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain, 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole — — 



a Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illumined Man on brother Man bestows. 

See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er a land I 

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud Property extended wide, 

And eyes the simple, rustic Hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind, 

Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 

With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 
c 2 



20 BURNS S POEMS. 

The powers you proudly own \ 

Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 

Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 
To bless himself alone % 

Mark maiden innocence a prey 
To love-pretending snares ; 

This boasted honour turns away, 

Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers ; 

Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, 

She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfied keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and clunky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 

Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 

Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine ! 

Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 

But shall thy legal rage pursue 

The wretch already crushed low 

By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !" 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning wi' a cheer, 

A cottage -rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind — 

Through all His works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



BURNS S POEMS. 21 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A Cantata. 



RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
An' infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry corps 

O' randie gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore. 
To drink their orra duddies ; 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel braced wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the touzie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an aumis-dish : 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIR. 
Tune— ■« Soldier's Joy" 
I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

* The old Scottish name for a bat. 



22 BURNS S POEMS. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now, though I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tattered rag hanging over my bum, 
I 'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

recitativo. 
He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus' roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out Encore ! 
But up arose the Martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune—" Soldier Laddie." 
I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie ! 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 



BURNS S POEMS. 23 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventured the soul, and I risked the body : 
'Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they flutter' d sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &e. 

And now I have lived — I know not how long, 
And still I can join in a cup and a song ; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie ! 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus took, 

Between themselves they were sae bizzy ; 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tuned his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune—'* Auld Sir Symon" 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa' to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk ; 
But what will ye ha'e of a fool % 



24 BURNS S POEMS. 

For drink I wad venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the hauf o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 

I ance was tied up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffin' ; 

I ance was abused i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my damn. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sporty 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's even, I'm tauld, i' the court ? 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observed ye, yon reverend lad 
Mak's faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad ; 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L — d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling., 
For mony a pursie she had hook'd, 
And had in mony a well been duck'd ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — " 0, an' ye ivere dead, Gudeman." 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 



BURNS S POEMS. 25 

Wi' his philibeg and tartan plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared nane, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea : 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one ! 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin' limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd nae higher) 
Had holed his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set afF, wi' allegretto glee, 

His giga solo. 



26 BURNS S POEMS. 



AIR. 

Tune—" Whistle o'er the Lave o't." 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 

And sun oursel's about the dyke, 

And at our leisure, when ye like, 

We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

RECTTATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He tak's the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor Tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' rueful face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 



BURNS S POEMS. 27 

But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler press'd her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the Caird address'd her : 

AIR. 

Tune—" Clout the Cauldron." 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinker is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither 'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin', 
And tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

And by that dear Kilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my cragie. 

And by that stowp, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler raked her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken-cavie. 

* A peculiar sort of whisky so called; a great favourite with 
Poosie-Nansie's clubs. 



28 BURNS S POEMS. 

Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft*. 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpled up, and lap like daft, 

And shored them Dainty Davie 

To boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want — but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 
Tune — " For a' that, and a' that.'" 
I am a bard of no regard 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke 
Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that ; 

And twice as meikle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife enough for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still, 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 
But for how lang the flee may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record. 



BURNS S POEMS. 29 

Their tricks and craft liae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex ! " 

I like the jads for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that ; 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 
My dearest blude to do them gude, 

They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo 'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best ; 

He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 

Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 
Tune—" Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses ." 

See the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing : 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 



30 BURNS S POEMS. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love I 



Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 



DEATH AND DR, HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 



Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd ; 
Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid at times to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true 's the Deil's in hell, 

Or Dublin city ; 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 



BURNS S POEMS. 31 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches : 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists and witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns wi' a' my pow'r 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'dna tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin' down on Willie's-mill, 
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Though leaward whyles against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang, 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ! 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks ! 

" Gude-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! ha'e ye been mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ? " * 
It seem'd to mak' a kind o' staun, 

But naething spak' : 
At length says I, " Friend ! whare ye gaun % 

Will ye gae back ? " 

It spak' right howe : — " My name is Death — 
But be na fley'd." — Quoth I, " Gude faith, 
Ye 're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie, 
I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully ! " 

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. 



32 BURNS S POEMS. 

"Gudenian," quo' he, "put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre my beard." 

" Weel, weel," says I, a a bargain be't ; 
Come, gie's your hand, and say we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks and tak' a seat, 

Come, gie's your news ; 
This while * ye ha'e been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 

" Ay, ay ! " quo' he, and shook his head, 
i( It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

And choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled, 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

And mony a scheme in vain's been laid 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's f ta'en up the trade, 

And faith ! he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
De'il mak his king's-hood in' a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan J 

And ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laughin' 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They ha'e pierced monie a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 

f This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of 
the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, by intuition and inspira- 
tion, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. 

± Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 



BURNS S POEMS. 33 

u 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, 

I threw a noble throw at ane : 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

i( Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad ha'e piereed the heart 

O' a kail-runt. 

66 1 drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel ha'e tried a quarry 

O' hard whin-rock. 

<c Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Although their face he ne'er had kenn'd it, 
Just in a kail-blade and send it ; 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At ance he tells't. 

" And then o' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to ha'e : 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A, B, C. 

a Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina o' beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus o' capons : 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill' d per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And monie mae." 



34 BURNS S P0E3IS. 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole * now/' 
Quoth I, " if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf- ward, whare go wans grew 

Sae wliite and bonny, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew : 

They'll ruin Johnny ! " 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, u Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak' ye na fear ; 
They'll a' be trench' d wi ! mouy a sheugh, 

In twa-three year 

" Where I kilPd ane a fair-strae death, 
By loss o' bluid, or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

" An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak' mair. 

" A countra laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

And pays him w r ell : 
The lad for twa gude gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel'. 

" A bonny lass, ye kenn'd her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame ; 

She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a sw r atch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt. 

* The grave-digger. 



BURNS S POEMS. 35 

« But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot 

As dead's a herrin' : 
Neist time we meet, I '11 wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' ! " 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer steak' the bell 

Some wee short 'hour ayont the twal, 

Which raised us baith : 
I took the way that pleased mysel', 

And sae did Death, 



THE KIRK'S ALARM*. 

A SATIRE. 



Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast ; 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Macf , Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil-doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewin' ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob J is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild§, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child 

And your life like the new-driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John||, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle, 

And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. 

* This Poem was written a short time after the publication of 
Dr. M' Gill's Essay. f Dr. M'Gill. 

^ R-— t A— k— n. § Mr. Dalrymple. II Mr. Russell. 

d 2 



36 BURNS S POEMS. 

Simper James 1 , Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney 2 , Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the Foul Thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld 3 , Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster 4 , Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose 5 , Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose, 

In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark, 

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie 6 , Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid astride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he s — t. 

Andro Gouk 7 , Anclro Gouk, ye may slander the book, 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie 8 , Barr Steenie,what mean ye ? what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side 9 , Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

i Mr. M'Kinlay. 2 Mr. Moodie. 3 Mr. Auld. 

4 Mr. G t of Ochiltree, 5 Mr. Y g of Cumnock. 

e Mr. Peebles of Ayr. "» Dr. A. M II. 

s Mr. S- — n Y— g of Barr. » Mr. S h of Galston. 



BURNS S POEMS. 37 

Muirland Jock,* Muirland Jock, when the L — d makes a 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, [rock 

If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,f Holy Will, there was wit in your skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saunt, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, 

Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns. 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsy, — e'en tho' she were tipsy, 

She cou'd ca 5 us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS 

OR THE HOLY TUILZIE^. 



O a' ye pious, godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best Herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five -and- twenty simmers past, 

O ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter, black out-cast 

At ween themseP. 

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how New-light Herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The L — d's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle. 
Sin' I ha'e min'. 
* Mr. S— d. 

t [An elder— or kind of churchwarden— in Mauchline, and the 
subject of the two pieces in pages 40— 42.— Ed.] 

t This piece was among the first of our Author's productions which 
he submitted to the public ; and was occasioned by a dispute between 
two Clergymen, near Kilmarnock. 



38 BURNS S POEMS. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds, respeckit 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear, they drank, 

sic a feast ! 

The foumart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Well kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he liked to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What Herd like Russell tell'd his tale ? 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And New-light Herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa ! — 0, do I live to see't ! 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither, gi'en, 
While New-light Herds, wi' laughin' spite 

Say neither's lyin' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel faul', 

There's D n deep, and Peebles shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them hot and cauld 

Till they agree. 



BURNS S POEMS. 39 



Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ! 
There's scaree a new Herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M e, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef ; 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Who fain would openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats among oursel': 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

An' that ye'll fin'. 

! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsel's 

To choose their Herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woodie dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close, nervous excellence, 
M'Q, — e's pathetic, manly sense, 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



40 BURNs's POEMS. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



Thou, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleasest best thyself 
Sends ane to heav'n and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for ony good or ill 

They've done afore thee : 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light, 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation ? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might ha'e plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Whare damned Devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a' thy flock. 

O L — d ! thou kens what zeal I bear 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, 
And singin' there, and dancin' here, 

Wi' great an' sma' ; 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a'. 



BURNS S POEMS. 41 



But yet, L — d ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust, 
And sometimes too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Denied in sin. 



Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow ; 

But L — d, that Friday I was fou 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er ha'e steer 'd her. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it, 

L — d, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But G-d confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

An' public shame. 

L — d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, 
Yet has sae monie takin' arts, 

Wi' grit an' sma', 
Frae G-d's ain priest the people's hearts 

He steals awa\ 

And when we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

0' laughin' at us ; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail an' potatoes. 

L — d, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, 

Against the presbytery o' Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L — d, make it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
L — d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 



42 BURNS S POEMS. 

OL~d, my G-d, that glib-tongued Aiken : 

My vera heart an' saul are cmakin', 

To think how we stood groaning shakin', 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hangin' lip and sneakin' 

Held up his head. 

L — d, in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r ; 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, L — d, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

ExeelPd by nane, 
An' a' the glory shall be thine : 

Amen, amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 



Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay 

Tak's up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ! 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe w T ha's standin' wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But hand your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 
** For pity ye ha'e nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 
And mercy's day is gane : 

But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him would stain your name, 
If it were ken'd you did it. 



BURNS S POEMS. 43 

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 



Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoabus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nocht can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I ha'e been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the Sov'reign of Scotland, 

And monie a traitor there : 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman ! 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That through thy soul shall gae : 



44 BURNS S POEMS. 

The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that drops on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh ! soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flowers that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



THE HOLY FAIR* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face was fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

And snuff the caller air : 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirpling down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day. 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a 
sacramental occasion. 



BURNS S POEMS. 45 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam' skelpin' up the way : 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a-wee aback, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, and claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As light as ony lambie, 
And wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day, 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughing as she spak', 

An' tak's me by the hands, 
"Ye for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a' the Ten Commands 

A screed some day, 

"My name is Fun — your crony dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e ; 
And this is Superstition here, 

And that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in damn' : 
Gin ye'll gae there, yon runkled pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
And meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se ha'e fine^emarkin' ! " 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' mony a weary body, 

In droves that day. 



46 BURNS S POEMS. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swaukies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks and scarlet glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, 

And farls baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show : 

On every side they're gatherin', 
Some carrying dails, some chairs and stools, 

And some are busy blethrin' 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra gentry, 
There Racer Jess, an' twa- three whores, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 
And there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock 

For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some upon their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

O happy is that man and blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him. 
Wi' arm reposed on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him, 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 



BURNS S POEMS. 47 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face 

To 's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' rattlin' and wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' and he's jump in' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh ! how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day. 

But hark ! the tent has changed its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger ! 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gi'e the jars and barrels 

A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

0' moral powers and reason ? 
His English style, and gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poisoned nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the Water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

And meek and mim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

And aff, and up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast that day. 
* A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline. 



48 BURNS S POEMS. 

Wee Miller, neist, the guard relieves, 

And orthodoxy raibles, 
Though in his heart he weel believes 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse, 

So cannily he hums them ; 
Although his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflhrs-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now butt and ben, the change-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; 
While thick and thrang, and loud and lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either school or college, 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fu' o' knowledge : 
Be't whiskey gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads and lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

And formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain Trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
And echoes back return the shouts, 

Black Russell is nae sparin' ; 
His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints and marrow; 
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow* 

Wi' fright that day. 
* Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



BURNS S POEMS. 49 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fu' o' lowin 5 brunstane, 
Whase ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whunstane ! 
The hauf asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear 

'Twas but some neebor snorin' 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups, 

Amang the furms and benches, 
And cheese and bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash gudewife, 

And sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld gudemen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

And gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that ha'e naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel' 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon, 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

E 



50 BURNs's POEMS. 

How mony hearts this day converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fu' o' love divine ; 

There's some are fu' o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs, that day begun, 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense they little owe to frugal Heaven, — 
To please the mob they hide the little given. 

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw, 

And pour your creeshie nations ; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw, 

0' a' denominations; 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a', 

And there tak' up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, 

And pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam' in wi Maggy Lauder *, 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

And Russell sair misca'd her ; 
This day M'Kinlay taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

And set the bairns to daud her 
Wi 5 dirt this day. 

Mak' haste and turn King David owre, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gi'e us four, 
. And skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission 
of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk. 



BURNS S POEMS. 51 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

And touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham * leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineas f drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah J, the scauldin' jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

P th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He tak's but for the fashion ; 
And gi'e him o'er the flock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial rams that cross the breed, 

Gi'e them sufficient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
And runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 
But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

And a' like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shored the kirk's undoin', 

As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
And, like a godly elect bairn, 
He's waled us out a true ane, 

And sound, this day. 
* Genesis, ix. 22. f Numbers, xxv. 8. £ Exodus, iv. 25. 
E 2 



52 BURNS S POEMS. 

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town o' Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lair, 

You may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

An' turn a carpet-weaver 

AfF-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
And aye he catch 'd the tither wretch. 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein' through the city, 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays I 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak' to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gi'es the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin and fell, 

As ane were peeling onions ! 
Now there — they're packed afF to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come, bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M'Kinlay, Russell, are the boys 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gi'e her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 



BURNS S POEMS. 53 



Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
" To every New Light * mother's son, 

From this time forth, confusion ! " 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REVEREND MR. JAMES STEVEN, 

ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CHAP. IV. VER. 2. 

' And they shall go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall." 



Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true. 

Though heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco' Calf ! 

And should some patron be so kind 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find 

Ye're still as great a Stirk ! 

But if the lover's raptured hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, every heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho' when some kind, connubial dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been, that you may wear 

A noble head o' horns ! 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowt, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the Nowt ! 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock ! " 

* New Light is a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those 
religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, has defended so 
strenuously. 



54 BURNS S POEMS. 



TO JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul! 

Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 

I owe thee much. Blair. 

Dear Smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely ha'e some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carline, Nature, 
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote— The Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Ha'e ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 

Some rhyme (vain thought 1) for needfu' cash ; 

Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash — 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

And damn'd my fortune to the groat : 

But, in requit, 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

0' countra wit, 



BURNS S POEMS. 55 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in gude black prent ! 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, " Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak' tent ! 

Ye'll show your folly. 

a There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Ha'e thought they had insured their debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
And teach the lanely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me wi' th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living, sound and hale ; 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave Care o'er side ! 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy-land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Mak's hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield : 
For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hoastin', hirplin' owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 



5(j BURNS S POEMS. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', 
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin' ; 
And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel, dear deluding woman, 

The joy o' joys! 

O Life I how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near 

Amang the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spat, 

For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 

They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

Wi' high disdain. 

Wi' steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And ithers, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin' ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zigzag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure and starvin'. 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and strainin' ! — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaimn' ; — 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna wanin' ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remainin' 

Let's sing our sang. 



BURNS S POEMS. 57 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, " Ye Pow'rs ! " and warm implore, 

" Though I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gi'e dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gi'e fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids o' honour: 
And yill and whisky gi'e to cairds 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 

A garter gi'e to Willie Pitt ; 

Gi'e wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. ; 
But gi'e me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

u While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down owre my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel 's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compared wi' you — fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hare-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces, 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 



58 BURNS S POEMS. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin' squad ; 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

Ye ken the road. 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak' a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST*. 



The sun had closed the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
And hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had closed his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely by the ingle-cheek 
I sat, and e'ed the spewin' reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

A' in this motty, misty clime, 

I backward mused on wasted time, 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 
For fools to sing. 
* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressiv 
poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation. 



BURNS S POEMS. 59 

Had I to gude advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, ha'e led a market, 
Or struttit in a bank, an' clarkit 

My cash-account ; 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit^ 

Is a' th' amount.^ 

I started, mutt'ring, Blockhead ! coof ! 
And heaved on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, wad be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When, click ! the string the sneck did draw ; 
And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf- clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
And come to stop those reckless vows 

Wad soon been broken, 

A u harebrain'd, sentimental trace" 
Was strongly markit in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, e'en turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen wi' honour, 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And sic a leg ! my bonny Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam' near it. 



60 BURNS S POEMS. 

Her mantle large, o' greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand, 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well-known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost, 
There, mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

Wi' surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods, 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And mony a lesser torrent scuds, 

Wi' seemin' roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 

Still, as hi Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r, or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

Wi' feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race * heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour, f mark him well ! 
Bold Richardton's J heroic swell ; 

* The Wallaces. t William Wallace. 

£ Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver 
of Scottish independence. 



BUUNSS POEMS. 61 

The chief on Sark *, who glorious fell. 

In high command ; 
And He, whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish f shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featured, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild romantic grove J, 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe § 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore : 
This, all its source and end to draw, 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward || I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 

* Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under 
Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, 
fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to 
the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of 
Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. 

t Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said 
to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat 
of the Montgomeries of Coil's-field, where his burial-place is still 
shown. 

£ Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice Clerk (Miller). 

§ Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor 
Stewart. 

II Colonel Fullarton. 



62 BURNS S POEMS. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonish' d stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired Bard, 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

u Know, the great Genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them share, 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot lore, 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His c Minstrel lays ;' 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 



BURNS S POEMS. 63 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic hard, the lab 'ring hind, 

The artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclined, 

The various man, 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each opening grace, 

A guide and guard. 

K Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 



64 BURNS S POEMS. 

" Or, when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry floweret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reapers' rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

cc I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends : 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art : 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

" Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Though large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 



BURNS S POEMS. 65 

<c Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor kings' regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic bard. 

6C To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

<c And wear thou this " — she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou \ 

Began the reverend sage : 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ! 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Outspreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 



66 BURNS S POEMS. 

I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs, 

That man was. made to mourn. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway : 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 
Through weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife, 

And helpless offspring, mourn. 



BURNS S POEMS. 67 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 

By nature's law design'd — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why lias man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn % 

Yet let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn. 

O Death t the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest. 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



TO RUIN. 



All hail, inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall, 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolved, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thickening, and blackening, 
Round my devoted head. 
f 2 



68 BURNS S POEMS. 

And thou, grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

! hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay \ 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 
OS THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs ; 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin' glow'rin' Superstition, 

Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 

Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gi'e her name up i' the chapel, 

"Nigh unto death ;" 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gane in a galloping consumption ; 

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her ; 
Her feeble pulse gi'es strong presumption, 

Death soon will end her. 



BURNS S POEMS. 69 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, ( 

An' end the quarrel. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1, 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding green, 
And paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
And mornin' poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin, 

To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin' ; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin' 

Ye need na doubt : 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark!" 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin' fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't, 
Then a' that ken'd him round declare't 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam' near't, 

It was sae fine ; 

* Dr. Taylor, of Norwich. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

That, set him to a pint o' ale, 

An' either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himseF, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches, 

Then up I gat, and swore an aith, 

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 

Or die a cadger-pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 

And ha'e to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak' a sang I" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stools, 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What ser'es your grammars ? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin'-hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 



BURNS S POEMS. 7 1 

Gi'e me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learning I desire ; 

Then tho' I drudge, thro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' namely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ; 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now, sir, if ye ha'e friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I believe, are few, 
Yet if your catalogue be fu', 

I'se no insist, 
But gif you want ae friend that's true 5 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel' : 
As ill I like my fau'ts to tell ; 

But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me ; 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As sair abuse me. 

There's ae wee fau't they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgi'e me ! 
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair ; 
Maybe some ither thing they gi'e me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gi'e ae night's discharge to care 9 

If we forgather, 
And ha'e a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
And faith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



72 BURNS S POEMS. 

Awa', ye selfish warl'y race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, 

Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others, " 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 

As my auld pen's worn to the gristle ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me iissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whistle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21,1785* 

Whjle new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'ening's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing through amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkward Muse sair pleads and begs, 

I waclna write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzy, 

She's saft at best, and something lazy ; 

Q,uo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae bizzie 

This month and mair, 
That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie^ 

And something sair*' 3 



BURNS S POEMS. 73 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jade ! 
I'll write, and that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
Sae dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose ye sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

And thank him kindly ! " 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

And down gaed stumpy i' the ink : 

Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
And if ye winna mak' it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it ! " 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak' proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether, 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your muirland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; 

She's but a bitch. 

She's gi'en me mony a jirt and fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behind a kist to lie and sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And niuckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal thane, 

Wi' ruffied sark and glancin' cane, 

Wha thinks himsel'' nae sheep-shank bane 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, 

As by he walks. 

" Thou wha gi'es us each gude gift, 
Gi'e me o' wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride." 

Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich and great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began : 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
5 Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he ! " 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers o' the nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcass howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 



BURNS S POEMS. 75 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year. 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785, 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie : 

Wi' gratefu' heart, I thank you brawlie ; 

Though I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Though in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but daur a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' GilbertfieP, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ; 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gi'e my heart a screed, 

As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(0 sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed, 

It gi'es me ease. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while. 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkeim'd-of isle 

Beside New Hollan', 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

And cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
Her muirs red-brown wi' heather-bells, 
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 

Whare glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft ha'e our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward red-wat shod, 

Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila's haughs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares in amorous winds, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While through the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry. 



BURNS S POEMS. 77 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, 
When winds rave through the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shows and forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts ha'e charms ! 

Whether the simmer kindly warms 

Wi' life and light ! 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang dark night ! 

The Muse nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin' burn's meander, 

And no think lang ; 
sweet, to stray and pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warl'y race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, and strive : 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the bizzy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither," 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While muirlan' herds like gude fat braxies ; 
While Terra Firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



78 BURNS S POEMS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light*, 
'Bout winch our herds sae aft ha'e been 

'Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 

At grammar, logic, and sic talents, 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak' their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roun' 

Gaed past their viewing 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 

This pass'd for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam' in their heads to dou't it, 
Till chiels gat up and wad confute it, 

And ca'ed it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was aboot it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-comin', to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied — it was affirm'd — 

The herds and hissels were alarm'd ; 

The rev'rend greybeards raved and storm'd 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

* See Note, page 53. 



BURNS S POEMS. 79 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks, 
And mony a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd and brunt. 

This game was play'd in mony lands, 
And auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick and stowe, 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane placed ; 
And some their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite bare-faced. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin' : 
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin' : 
MyseP, I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight, 
And stay ae month amang the moons, 

And see them right. 

Gude observation they will gi'e them ; 

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae ye observe, that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter ; ' ' 

But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
1 hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic bruilzie. 



80 BURNS'S POEMS. 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. 13t7i, 1785. 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnnie, 
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye 're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmost grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm busy too, an' skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin' showers ha'e wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like ony clerk. 

Its now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men ; 
While de'il a hair yourseP ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whisky stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak' objections at it, 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usqubae we've wat it 

It winna break. 



BURNS S POEMS. 81 

But if the beast and branks be spared 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aquavitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty. 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
And now the sun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste, 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF " HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER," WHICH 
HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. 17, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cower 
To shun the bitter blaudin shower, 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tired wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, kintra bardie, 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 



82 BURNS S POEMS. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 

Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, 

Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun *, misca't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him, 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've used him ? 

See him + the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts, 
To gi'e the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But twenty times I rather would be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
f The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into 
the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. 



BURNS S POEMS. 83 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
For what \ to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Though blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite o' undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid iib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too, renown' d, 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are named 
Sir, in that circle you are famed ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blamed 

(Which gi'es you honour) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem 'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en ; 
An' if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 
g 2 



84 BURNS S POEMS. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 

November, 1785. 



Wee, sleekit, cowerin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa' sae hastie, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'rin' pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal. 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't. 

Thy wee bit liousie, too, in ruin ! 
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething now to big a new ane 

0' foggage green ! 
An 5 bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
An' weary winter coming fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch cauld ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 85 

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gang aft a-gley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee ; 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear ! 
And forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an 5 fear. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gi'e him strong drink until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
And liquor gude to fire his blude, 

That's prest wi' grief and care . 

There let him house, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

And minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us, 

And grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch Bear can mak' us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! gude auld Scotch drink ! 
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awnie horn, 
And pease and beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 



86 BURNS S POEMS. 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down hill, scrievin' 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massive siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet numbly kind, in time o' need 

The poor man's wine ; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspired, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a New-year mornin' 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

And gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gi'es his bellows breath, 
And ploughmen gather with their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' the luggit caup ! 
Then Burnewin* comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

* Burnewin — Burn-the-wind — the Blacksmith. 



BURNS S POEMS. 87 

Nae mercy then for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, ba'nie, ploughman chiel' 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' weanies see the light, 
Thou mak's the gossips clatter bright 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
And just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
And hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt drucken hash 

O hauf his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye, chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blether wrench, 
And gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out-owre a glass o' whiskey-punch 

Wi' honest men. 



88 BURNS S POEMS. 

whiskey ! soul o' ploys and pranks ! 
Accept a bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wantin' thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s ! 

Thee Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, and barking hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter' d boast 

Is ta'en awa' ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak' the whiskey stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', De'il ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ; 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies, 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whiskey gill, 
And routh o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak' a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND 
PRAYER * 

19 THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OP 
COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best — 

How art thou lost ! Parody on Milton. 

Ye Scottish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wha represent our brughs and shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

* This was written before the act anent the Scottish Distilleries, 
of session 1786 ; for which Scotland and the author return their 
most grateful thanks. 



BURNS S POEMS. 89 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 

Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitting on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
And scriechin , out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust I 

Tell them wha ha'e the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aquavitee ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth, 

The honest, open, naked truth ; 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom \ 
Speak out, and never fash your thumb : 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gatherin' votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back, 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel, 
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom's a whistle ; 
And damn'd excisemen in a bustle, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant, crushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then, on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behint her, 
And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 



90 BURNS S POEMS. 

Is there that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart' s-blude rising hot, 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dang in staves, 
An' plundered o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight ! 
But could I like Montgom'ry fight, 

Or gab like Bos well, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

And tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours ! can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carline greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhet6ric clause on clause 

To mak' harangues ; 
Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true-blue Scot, I'se warran' ; 
Thee, aith-detesting chaste Kilkerran;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The laird o' Graham f ; 
An' ane, a chap that's d — n'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ! 

An' monie ithers, 
Wham auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith, I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

You'll see't, or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. t The Duke of Montrose. 



BURNS S POEMS, 91 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood, 
Her lost militia fired her bluid ; 
(De'il na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
And now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her whiskey. 

An', L — d, if ance they pit her tilPt, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak' the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For God sake, sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle House repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks ; 
But gi'e him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie, 
And send him to his dicing-box 

And sportin' lady. 

Tell yon gude bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 

An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's * 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch, 
He needna fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a deevil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak' their part, 
Though by the neck she should be strung, 
She'll no desert. 
* A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he 
sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch drink. 



92 BURNS S POEMS. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye' 11 snap your fingers, poor and hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claes, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let hauf-starved slaves in warmer skies, 
See future wines rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her free-born martial boys 

Tak' aff their whiskey. 

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range in famish' d swarms 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hankering swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throu'ther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, sic is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes ! — wi' fearless e'e he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gie's him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 



BURNS S POEMS. 93 

Sages their solemn een may steely 
And raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me Whiskey's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tyne your dam : 
Freedom and Whiskey gang thegither, 

Tak' aff your dram. 



HALLOWEEN *. 



[The following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough 
understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with 
the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, 
notes are added, to give some account of the principal charms and 
spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the 
west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a 
striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in 
all ages and nations : and it may be some entertainment to a philo- 
sophic mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.] 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

GOLDSMITH. 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans f dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance : 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There up the Cove J to stray and rove, 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night. 

* Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief- 
making beings, are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands ; 
particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night 
to hold a grand anniversary. 

t Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbour- 
hood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. 

$ A noted cavern near Colzean, or Colean-house, called The Cove 
of Colean ; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country 
story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 



94 BURNS S POEMS. 

Amang the bonny winding banks, 

Where Doon rins wimplin clear, 
Where Bruce * ance ruled the martial ranks, 

And shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly countra folks 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, and pu' their stocks, 

And haud their Halloween, 

Fu' blithe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal and warm, and kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin', 

Whyles fast at night. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks f maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, and graip and wail 

For muckle anes, and straught anes. 
Poor haverel Will fell aff the drift, 

And wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
And pu'd, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 

* The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert the great 
deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. 

t The first ceremony of Halloween, is, pulling each a stock, or plant 
of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull 
the first they meet with : its being big or little, straight or crooked, is 
prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells 
— the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that 
is tocher or fortune : and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart 
of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. 
Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; and the 
christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house 
are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in 
question. 



BURNS S POEMS. 95 

And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne cozily, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they've placed them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a', 

To pu' their stalks o' corn ; * 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirled a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiutlin i' the fause-house f 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld gude wife's weel-hoardit nits, J 

Are round and round divided, 
And monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleezed owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart, 
To see't that night. 

* They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, 
a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, 
the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come 
to the marriage-bed anything but a maid. 

t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, 
the stack -builder, by means of old timber, &c. makes a large apart- 
ment in his stack with an opening in the side which is most exposed 
to the wind; this he calls a fause-house. 

X Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and 
lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire ; and accord- 
ingly as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, 
the course and issue of the courtship will be. 



96 BURNS S POEMS. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi 5 primsie Mallie ; 
And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compared to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel' and Rab in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sabbin : 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view ; 

She whisper'd Rab to leuk for't : 
Rab, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou', 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She thro' the yard the nearest tak's, 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
And darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clew * throws then, 
Right fear't that night. 

And ay she win't, and ay she swat ; 

I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the de'il himsel' 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly 
observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, dark- 
ling, throw into the pot a clew of blue yarn ; wind it in a new clew 
off the old one ; and, towards the latter end something will hold 
the thread ; demand, Wha hauds ? i. e. who holds ? an answer will 
be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the christian and sur-name 
of your future spouse. 



BURNs's POEMS. 97 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie % 
I'll eat the apple * at the glass 

I gat frae uncle Johnnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She noticed na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night, 

* Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur you try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune ? 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight f 

Great cause ye ha'e to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' lived and died deleeret, 
On sic a night. 

K Ae hairst afore the Sherra-Muir, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wat, 

And stuff was unco green ; 
And ay a rantin' kirn we gat, 

And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

" Our stibble-rig was Hab M tf Graen, 

A clever sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin* gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That lived in Achmacalla ; 
He gat hemp-seed f , I mind it weel, 

And he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

* Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple 
before it ; and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all 
the time ; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will he seen in 
the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. 

t Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hempseed, harrow- 
ing it with any thing you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, 
now and then, " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee ; 

H 



98 BURNS S POEMS. 

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck, 

For it was a' but nonsense : 
The auld gudeman raught down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Some time when nae ane see'd him, 
And try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow tak's, 

And haurls at his curpin : 
And ev'ry now and then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

He whistled up Lord Lennox' March, 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

And then a grane an' gruntle : 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

And tumbled wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam' rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin' Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stap ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

And wha was it but grumphie 

A steer that night ! 

and him (or her) that is to he my true-love, come after me and pu 
thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appear- 
ance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some 
traditions say, " Come after me and shawthee," that is. show thy- 
self ; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, 
and say, " Come after me, and harrow thee." 



BURNS S POEMS. 99 

Meg fain wad to the barn ha'e gane, 

To win' three weehts o' nae thing ; v 
But for to meet the de'il her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gi'es the herd a pickle nits, 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

And she cried, L — d preserve her ! 
And ran thro' midden-hole and a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ! 
It chanced the stack he faddom'd thrice f 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He tak's a swerlie auld moss-oak 

For some black grewsome carlin ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam' haurlin 

AfF's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kitlen ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She gat a fearfu' settlin' I 

* This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and alone. 
You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges 
if possible ; for there is danger that the being about to appear may 
. shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instru- 
ment, used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect 
we call a wecht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn 
against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an 
apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and 
out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appear- 
ance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life. 

t Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a beanstack, and 
fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you 
will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal 
yoke-fellow. 

h 2 

LOFC. 



100 BURNS S POEMS. 

She thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn*, 

To dip her left sark sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it stays, 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glittered to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles joukit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brechens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
The de'il, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up and gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit ; 
But missed a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three + are ranged, 
And every time great care is ta'en 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

He heaved them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

* You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south- 
running spring, or rivulet, where " three lairds' lands meet," and 
dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to hed in sight of a fire, and hang 
your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake ; and sometime near 
midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object 
in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other 
side of it. 

t Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foul water in another 
and leave the third empty. Blindfold a person and lead him to the 
hearth where the dishes are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand: 
if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will 
come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 101 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
And unco tales, and funny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery : 
Till butter' d so'ns % wi' fragrant lunt, 

Sets a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



ADDRESS 

TO THE UNCO GUDE, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May ha'e some pyles o' caff in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' damn. — Solomon. Eccles vii. 16. 

O ye wha are sae gude yoursel', 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebors' fau'ts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable corps, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Wad here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

if in the empty dish, it foretels, with equal certainty, no marriage 
at all. It is repeated three times ; and every time the arrange- 
ment of the dishes is altered. 

tSowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the 
Halloween supper. 



102 BURNS S POEMS. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What mak's the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gi'es now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It mak's an unco lee-way. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O wad they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before you gi'e poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman, 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; 

To step aside is human : 
i One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far, perhaps, they rue it. 



BURNS S POEMS. 103 

Wha made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us ; 
He knows each chord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY, 
An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pope. 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the de'il? 
Or great M'Kinlay f thrawn his heel ? 
Or Robinson J again grown weel, 

To preach and read? 
6i Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel, 

" Tarn Samson's dead." 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane, 
And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in worn' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel — 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

* When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fowl season, 
he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, " the last of his fields," 
and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. 
On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the 
" Ordination," stanza 2. 

X Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at 
that time ailing. For him see also the " Ordination," stanza 9. 



104 BURNS S POEMS. 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the corps, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately saumont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels, weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in Death's fish-creel we Avail 

Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 

Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw ; 

Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead. 

That wofu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shooting-graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now every auld wife, greeting, clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre monie a wearie hagg he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 105 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle -swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
f£ Lord, five !" he cried, and owre did stagger; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn' d a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman-youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

0' powther and lead ; 
Till Echo answers frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social honest man want we — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies. 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye '11 mend or ye win near him. 



PER CONTRA. 
Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Through a' the streets and neuks o ? Killie : 
Tell every social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin' ? 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin' ! 



106 BURNS S POEMS. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 

A BROTHER POET *. 



AULD NEEBOUR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-f arrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt you flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly rhymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

0' warl'y cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye ha'e negleckit ; 
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

0' rhymin' clink, 
The devil haet, that I sud ban', 

• They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gi'e us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

And while ought's there, 
Then, Mtie-skiltie, we gae scrievin 2 , 

And fash nae mair. 

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published at 
Kilmarnock, 1789. 



BURNS S POEMS. 107 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie I 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door, 



LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S 
AMOUR. 

Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself ! 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe- 

Home. 

thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou see'st a wretch who inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam : 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in the gurgling rill ; 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above ; 
The promised father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love ! 



108 BURNS S POEMS. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone ? 

My secret heart's exulting boast ! 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

! can she bear so base a heart, 
So lost to honour, lost to truth, 

As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 

Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie through rough distress ! 

Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 
Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd, 

Enraptured more, the more enjoyed, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasured thoughts employ'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n every ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 
Awakes me up to toil and woe : 

1 see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang and many a throe, 

Keen Recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 
Or, if I slumber, Fancy, chief 

Reigns haggard- wild, in sore affright : 
Even day, all bitter, brings relief 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

O thou bright queen, who o'er the expanse, 
Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway : 

Oft has thy silent-marking glance 
Observed us, fondly wand'ring, stray ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 109 

The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While Love's luxurious pulse beat high, 

Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 
To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

O scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never to return ; 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander through ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 

AN ODE. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
"What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me through, 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er, 

But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ; 
Even when the wished end's denied, 
Yet while the busy means are plied, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet every sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same. 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 



110 BURNS S POEMS 

How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild, with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his evening thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heaven on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed, 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art ; 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate ; 
Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

• Oh ! enviable, early days, 
When dancing, thoughtless, Pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt, unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age ! 



BURNS S POEMS. HI 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO B. AITKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short but simple annals of the poor — Gray. 

My loved, my honour'd, much -respected friend ! ' 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise ; 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene : 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, 

What Aitken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween ! 

November chill blaws loud wi J angry sugh ; 

The shortening wjnter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th ? expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary carkin' cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in, 
At service out amang the farmers roun' ; 

Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town : 



112 BURNS S POEMS. 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, 

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 
Or deposite her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopefu' years : 

Anticipation forward points the view : 
The Mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their masters' and their mistresses' command 

The youukers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play ; 
" And ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

And mind your duty duly morn and night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright." 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door : 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben : 

A strappin' youth ! he tak's the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en ; 

The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What mak's the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave : 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respectit like the lave. 



BURNS S POEMS. 113 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare I 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
a If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 

gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ! 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild \ 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
The sowp their only Hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it gude ; 

The frugal wine, garrulous, will- tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha 5 bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And " Let us worship God !" he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise : 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 



1J4 BURNS S POEMS. 

Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared wi' these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison ha'e they wi' our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high : 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 

command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing,"* 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 
* Pope's Windsor Forest. 



BURNS S POEMS. 115 

Then homeward all take off their several way : 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request — 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

6i An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp % a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ; 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward ;) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ! 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



i 2 



116 BURNS S POEMS. 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH 
PSALM. 



Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place ! 

Before the mountains heaved their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which raised and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeghming time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies, 

All wither' d and decay'd. 



BURNS S POEMS. 117 



VERSES 



LEFT AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE, IN THE ROOM 
WHERE THE AUTHOR SLEPT. 



Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke 
Long, long be pleased to spare ! 

To bless his filial little flock, 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou G od of love and truth, 
Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on every hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driven, 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in heaven ! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, 
IN APRIL, 1786. 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem ! 



118 BURNS S POEMS. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bomiie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' spreckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise : 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade, 
By love's simplicity betray' d, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven, 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 






BURNS S POEMS. ] 1 9 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
May, 1786. 



I lang ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent: you, 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento : 
But how the subject-theme may gang 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Even when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where every nerve is strained. 

I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha ha'e nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer : 
A man may ha'e an honest heart, 

Though poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak' a neebor's part, 

Yet ha'e nae cash to spare him. 



120 BURNS S POEMS. 

Aye free, aff-han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yourseP 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek through every other man 

Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Though naething should divulge it. 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard o' concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by every wile 

That's justified by honour : 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature : 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, 
Religion may be blinded ; 

Or if she gi'e a random sting, 
It may be little minded ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 121 

But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed " 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser. 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. 



Ha ! wh'are ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a leddy ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ! 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, 
Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

0' Miss's bonnet ! 



]22 BURNS S POEMS. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and gray as ony grozet ; 

for some rank mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red snieddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your drodduin ! 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunartli ! fie, 

How dare ye do't ! 

0, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 

wad some Pow'r the giftie gi'e us 
To see oursel's as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKLNE, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 



O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin' 

Your dreams* and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin' 

Straught to Auld Nick's. 

Ye ha'e sae mony cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye make a deevil o' the saunts, 

And fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, and wants, 

Are a' seen through. 

* A certain humorous " Dream " of his was then making a noise 
in the country-side. 



BURNS S POEMS- 123 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black 1 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithin', 
It's just the blue-gown badge and claithin' 
O' saunts ; tak' that, ye lea'e them nae thing 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen, 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for and mair ; 
Sae, when ye ha'e an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang * : ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Though faith, sma' heart ha'e I to sing ! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring ! 

And danced my fill ; 
I'd better gane and sair't the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

And brought a paitrick to the grun', 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne'er thinkin' they would fash me for't ; 

But de'il-ma'-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld-used hands had ta'en a note 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lee ; 
So gat the whistle o' my groat, 

And pay't the fee. 

* A song he had promised the author. 



124 BURNS S POEMS. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
And by my powther and my hail, 
And by my hen, and by her tail, 

I vow and swear, 
The game shall pay, o'er muir and dale, 

For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin'-time is by, 
And the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, I'se ha'e sportin' by and by, 

For my gowd guinea, 
Though I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce through the feathers : 
And baith a yellow george to claim, 

And thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ! 

But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected sir, 

Your most obedient. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 






A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

An's owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin' corps 
Wha dearly like a random splore ; 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An's owre the sea. 



BURNS S POEMS. 125 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him ; 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

O Fortune, they ha'e room to grummle 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fummle, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wummle, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill make her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor'-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea ! 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach 

Could ill agree, 
So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

And owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding, 

He dealt it free : 
The Muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies ! use him weel, 
And hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee ! 
He wad na wrang'd the vera de'il 

That's owre the sea. 



126 BURNS S POEMS. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



A DEDICATION 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



Expect na, sir, in this narration, 

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 

To roose you up, and ca' you guid, 

And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 

Because ye're surnamed like his Grace, 

Perhaps related to the race ; 

Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye, 

Wi' mony a fulsome sinfu' lie, 

Set up a face, how I stop short, 

For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, sir, wi' thaim wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefu' ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit ! I can plough ! 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit ! I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin', 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him ! 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgi'e me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak' it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 127 

Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't, 
Till aft his guidness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye' 11 get the best of moral works 
'Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that tak's the door ; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter ! stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn lengthen' d groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye 're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs o' your ain delvin' ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 



128 BURNS S POEMS. 

When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gi'es him, 
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 
I 'maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, sir, ye see, 'twas nae daft vapour : 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak' it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For praying I ha'e little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, and wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you, sir 

" May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy^ far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonny lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, wi' mutual rays, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days ; 
Till his wee curly John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 129 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest wi' Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carle, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in heaven ! 
While recollection's power is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of Fortune's strife, 
I, through the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet together, 
Then, sir, your hand — my friend and brother. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX*. 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ; 
Except the moment that they crusht him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Though e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport. 

Though he was bred to kintra wark, 
And counted was baith wight and stark, 
Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak' a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roosed him then ! 
* Ituisseaux—a. play on his own name. 
K 



130 BURNS S POEMS. 



LETTER 

TO JAMES TAIT, OF GLENCONNER. 



Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 
How stan' you this blae eastlin' wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd : 
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tired, 
An' in the depth of science mired, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them and return them quickly ; 
For now I'm grown so cursed douce, 
I pray and ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roast in', 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till by and by, if I hand on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning and a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down with auld grey hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him ; 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



BURNS S POEMS. 131 

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason billie, 
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 
If he's a parent, lass or boy, 
May he be dad, an' Meg the mither, 
Just five-an'-forty years thegither ! 
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 
An' L — d ! remember singing Sannock, 
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock. 
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 
Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 
An' her kind stars ha'e airted till her 
A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 
Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 
For faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious : 
To grant a heart is fairly civil, 
But to grant a maidenhead's the devil ! 
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel', 
May guardian angels tak' a spell, 
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 
But first, before you see heav'n's glory, 
May ye get monie a merry story, 
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 
An' ay enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you. — 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man ; 
Sae I conclude an' quat my chanter, 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress. 



Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love 
And ward o' monie a pray'r, 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 
k 2 



132 BURNS S POEMS. 

November hirples o'er the lea, 
Chill, on thy lovely form ; 

And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 
Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 
Fair on the snmmer morn : 

Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscathed by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem, 
Arise to deck our land ! 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by 
the Author. 



Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 133 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem, 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 



The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossoms bud in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, toss'd 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath given them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



134 BURNS'S POEMS. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 



Mosgaville,' May 3, 1786. 

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty 

To warn you now that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak 5 the tither day, 

And wad ha'e done't afF-han' ; 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muekle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld crummie's nicks, 
An' telling lies about them ; 

As lieve then I'd have then 

Your Clerkship he should ser'e, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 

An' bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I ha'e na ony fear. 
Ye'U catechise him every quirk, 
An' shore him weel wi' hell ; 
An' gar him follow to the kirk 
— Ay when ye gang yoursel'. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

* " Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline — a dealer in cows. It 
was his common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the 
horns of cattle to disguise their age. — He was an artful, trick-con- 
triving character ; hence, he is called a snick-drawer. In the Poet's 
' Address to the De'il,' he styles that august personage an auld, 
snick-drawing dog !"— Reliques, p. 397. 



BURNS S POEMS. 135 

My word of honour I ha'e gie'n, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the Warld's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 
When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 

To phraise you an' praise you, 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The prayer still you share still 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



TO MR. M'ADAM 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In Answer to an obliging Letter he sent in, the commencement 
of my Poetic Career. 



Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
" See wha tak's notice o' the bard ! " 

I lap and cried fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million ; 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 
I'm roosed by Craigen-Grillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir — 'twas like yourseP, 
To grant your high protection ; 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel, 
Is aye a blest infection : 

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub 
Match' d Macedonian Sandy ! 

On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 
I independent stand aye. — 

And when those legs to guid warm kail, 
Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 



136 BURNS S POEMS. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

0' mony flow'ry sinimers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 
The blossom of our gentry ; 

And may he wear an auld man's beard, 
A credit to his country. 



TO A TAILOR, 

IX ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT 
THE AUTHOR. 



What ails ye now, ye lousy b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! ha'e mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did na suffer half sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, 
I gi'e their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, 

An' jag-the-flae ! 

King David, o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

0' lang-syne saurats. 

And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gi'e auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 



BURNS S POEMS. 137 

But fegs ! the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upon anitlier plan 

Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mithers' ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort— 
Auld Clinkum at the inner port 

Cried three times, "Robin ! 
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blamed for jobbin'." 

Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, 
An' snooved awa 1 before the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason, 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason ? 



[On reading in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other 
parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, 
than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee ; 
and, in his dreaming fancy, made the follow ing address.] 

Gude-morning to your Majesty! 

May Heav'n augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord and lady ! 
" God save the king ! " 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 



138 BURNS S POEMS. 

The poets too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, 

Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang, 
But aye unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor ; 
Sae nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's moiiy waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

And downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft and clouted, 
And now the third part o' the string, 

And less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire, 

Ye've trusted 'ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gi'en auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God ! my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 



BURNS S POEMS. 139 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges 
(And Will's a true gude fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

And lessen a' your charges ; 
But, God-sake ! let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

And boats this day. 

Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
And may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gi'e her for dissection. 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your queen, with due respect, 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gi'es ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

And curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak' Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak' a noble aiver ; 
Sae ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clishmaclaver : 



140 BURNS S POEMS. 

There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John f, 

He was an unco shaver 

For mony a day. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Although a riband at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer ; 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then swith ! and get a wife to hug, 

Or, troth ! ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her, 
A glorious galley J stem and stern, 

Weel rigged for Venus' barter, 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple-airn, 

And, large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak' you gude as weel as braw, 

And gi'e you lads a-plenty ! 
But sneer na British boys awa*, 

For kings are unco scant aye ; 
And German gentles are but sma ? , 

They're better just than want aye, 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye' re unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course of life be through, 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
And I ha'e seen their coggie fou, 

That yet ha'e tarrow't at it ; 

But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they ha'e clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 
* King Henry V. 

t Sir John Falstaff. See Shakspeare's Henry IV. 
± Alluding to the newspaper-account of a certain royal sailor's 
amour. 



BURNS S POEMS. 141 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ceesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shaw'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shaw'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he ; 
But wad ha'e spent an hour caressin' ' 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler gipsy's messin : 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stand as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 
Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang *, 
Was made lang syne — Gude kens how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke ; 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

* Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



142 BURNS S POEMS. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
And unco pack and thick thegither': 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff 'd and snowkit ; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour 'd awa' in lang excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' damn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down. 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords of the creation. 



I've aften wonder' d, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach : he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 
The yellow-letter'd geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has on a' the Ian' : 
And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Csesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh ; 

A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 

Barin' a quarry, and sic like ; 

Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, 

And nought but his han'-clarg to keep 

Them right and tight in thack and rape. 



BURNS S POEMS. 143 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But how it comes I never kend yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

CJESAR. 

But then, to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huffd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ; 
Lord, man ! our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle, 
They gang as x saucy by poor folk 
As I wad by a stinking brock, 

I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day, 
And mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse, and swear 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that ha'e riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Though constantly on poortith's brink, 
They're sae accustom 'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided : 
And though fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are j ust their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

And, whyles, twalpenny worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 



144 BURNS S POEMS. 

They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's coniin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, 
When rural life o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin'-mill, 
Are handed round wi' right gude will ; 
The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' through the house : 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy ha'e barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye ha'e said, 
Sic game is now owre often play'd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
0' decent, honest-fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin', 
For Britan's gude his saul indentin' — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's gude ! gude faith, I doubt it ! 

Say rather, gaun, as Premiers lead him, 

And saying ay or no's they bid him I 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 

Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais tak's a waft, 

To mak' a tour and tak' a whirl, 

To learn bon ton, and see the warl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 






BURNS S POEMS. 145 

Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles ; 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak' himseP look fair and fatter, 
And clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 
For Britain's gude ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae monie a braw estate 1 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

O wad they stay aback frae courts, 
And please themsel's wi' country sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, and the cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin' ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows, 
Except for breaking o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Csesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life of pleasure ! 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't needna fear them. 

CJESAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat, 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' aye the less they ha'e to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 



146 BURNS S POEMS. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping through public places ; 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' 'ither, 
They're a' run deils and jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 
There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



BURNS S POEMS. 147 



LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 



This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty -third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

(Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ;) 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ; 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage, he o'erlooks them a' 

As I look o'er my sonnet ! 

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he stared and stammer'd, 
When goavan as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer' d. 

To meet good Stuart little pain is, 
Or Scotia's sacred Demosthenes, 

Thinks I, they are but men ! 
But Burns, my Lord — Guid God ! I doited, 
My knees on ane anither knoited, 

As faultering I gaed ben ! 

I sidelins shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 



148 BURNS S POEMS. 

I watch'd the symptoms of the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest, worthy man need care 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their lib'ral mind 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envv blot their name. 



BURNS S POEMS. 149 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Famed heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas ! how changed the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wide-wand'ring roam ! 

Though rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ; 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour' d shade. 



150 BURNS S POEMS. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

0\vre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near, 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

0, pass not by ! 
But with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave, 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

W f as quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 

In low pursuit, 
Know, prudent, cautious, self control 

Is wisdom's root. 






BURNS S POEMS. 151 



THE BRIGS OF AYR: 

A POEM. 

Inscribed to J. Ballantyne, Esq. Ayr. 



The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn-bush ; 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast' shrill, 

Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er the hill ; 

Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy Independence bravely bred, 

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest Fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 

With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



5 Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 



152 BURNSS POEMS. 

Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 

(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 

And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 

Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 

Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 

Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree ; 

The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 

While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh o' Ayr, 

By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 

He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 

And down by Simpson's * wheel'd the left about ; 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 

He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 

The drowsy Dungeon-clock *j* had number'd two, 

And Wallace Tower f had sworn the fact was true: 

The tide-swoln frith, with sullen sounding roar, 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore ; 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream — 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sough of whistling winds he heard ; 
Twa dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the gos X drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers. 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descried 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo o' the sp 'ritual folk : 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, 
And ev'n the very de'ils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd o' ancient Pictish race, 
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

t The two steeples. 

± Thegos-hawk, or falcon. 






BURNS S POEMS. 153 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had warsled lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanced his new-come neighbour took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ; 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this gude-e'en: 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na,frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith, that day, I doubt, ye'll never see ! 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street, 
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk, o' stane and lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wad tak' the Ducat-stream *, 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! 

This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide ; 

And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 

I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 

As yet ye little ken about the matter, 

But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 

When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 

Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 

When from the hills, where springs the brawling Coil, 

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 



154 BURNS S POEMS. 

Or wliare the Greenock winds his moorland course, 
Or haunted Garpal * draws his feeble source, 
Aroused by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, 
Sweeps dams, and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck f down to the Ratton-key £, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl — de'il nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the jumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson, sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost. 



Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't; 

The L — d bethankit that we've tint the gate o't ! 

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 

Hanging, with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 

O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; 

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 

Forms, like some bedlam-statuary's dream, 

The crazed creations of misguided whim ; 

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea; 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 

Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion : 

Fancies that our gude Brugh denies protection, 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye : 

* The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West 

of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name 

of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

t The source of the river Ayr. 

% A small landing-place above the large quay. 



BURNS S POEMS. 155 

Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha ha'e blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly ga'e your hurdies to the smiters ; 
(And what wad now be strange) ye godly Writers: 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what wad ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base degenerate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots baud forth a plain braid story! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, and douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, 

Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d d new Brigs 

and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said enow r , 

And muckle mair than ye can mak' to through. 

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 

Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 

But, under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ; 

To liken them to your auld-warl' squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can ha'e a handle 

To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd liberal views in bonds and seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shored them wi' a glimmer o' his lamp, 

And would to Common-sense for ance betray'd them, 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 



156 BURNS S POEMS. 

Adown the glittering stream they featly danced ; 

Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : 

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 

The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 

While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 

And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 

O had M'Lauchlan % thairm-inspiring Sage, 

Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 

When through his dear Strathspeys they bore with High- 

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, [land rage, 

The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 

How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, 

And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspired ! 

No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 

But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 

Harmonious concert rang in every part, 

While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty, hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wreath' d with nodding corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair f ; 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine J, their long-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 

* A well-known performer of Scottish music on the violin. 

t The poet alludes here to Mrs. Stewart of Stair. — Stair was then 
in her possession. She afterwards removed to Afton-Lodge, on the 
banks of the Afton, a stream which he afterwards celebrated in 
a song, entitled " Af ton-Water." 

% The seat of Professor Dugald Stewart. 



BURNS S POEMS. 157 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 



Tune — " The Dragon of Wantley." 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 

This Hal lor genius, wit and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remember'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And wan his heart's desire, 
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — in the fire. 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purged was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the ass of Balaam. — 



158 BURNS's POEMS. 



TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, 

AFTER HER MARRIAGE, WITH A PRESENT OF A COPY OF HIS POEIWS. 



Once fondly loved, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! — 'tis all cold duty now allows : — 

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him (he asks no more), 

Who distant burns in flaming, torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smiled ; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguiled. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung ; 

So Isabella's heart was form'd, 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



BURNS S POEMS. 159 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measured time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie, 
Deprived of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy? 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray \ 



TO MISS LOGAN, 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 

Jan. 1, 1787. 



Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charged, perhaps too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



160 BURNS S POEMS. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Tune — " Killicrankie." 

When Guildford good our pilot stood 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man ; 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was nae slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept in Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man I 
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive, frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, and Guildford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doore, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man ; 



BURNS S POEMS. J 61 

For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lowsed his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man. 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man : 
An' Scotland drew her pipe and blew, 

« Up Willie, waur them a', man ! " 

Behind the throne, then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man : 
While slee Dundas aroused the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man,) 
Wi' kindling eyes, cried " Willie, rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man f 9 

But word and blow, North, Fox, and Co. 

GowfF'd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthron rase, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man. 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

And did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood, 

To make it gude in law, man. 



162 BURNs's POEMS. 



TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE, 

(Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope,) 

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH SHE HAD SENT THE AUTHOR. 



GuiDWIFE, 

I mind it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

And first could thresh the barn ; 
Or hand a yokin' at the pleugh ; 
An' tho' forf ought en sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoned was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa\ 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spared the symbol dear ; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 



But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hairst I said before, 
My partner in the merry corps, 

She roused the forming strain : 



BURNS S POEMS. 163 

I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pawky een 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared ay to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter- days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye' re connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye 're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Hk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be wear ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hinging o'er my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 

March, 1787. R. Burns. 



m 2 



164 BURNS S POEMS. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER *, 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 



My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ! 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In naming summer pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly -jumping glow'rin' trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Ev'n as I was he shored me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad adored me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel', 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Wad then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 

* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beauti- 
ful ; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and 
shrubs. 



BURNS S POEMS. 165 

Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin, pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown o' flowers ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care ; 
The flowers shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 



166 BURNS S POEMS. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour' d native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " A thole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses V 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL 

IS LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OUGHTERTYRE. 



Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties I — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels ; 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain I 

In these savage liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 



BURNS S POEMS. ]67 

Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



VERSES, 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A 

COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS, PRESENTED TO A 

YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787. 



Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
O thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



TO A LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES. 



Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Q,ueen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, 
As generous as your mind ; 

And pledge me in the generous toast — 
u The whole of human kind ! " 

" To those who love us ! " — second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third — " To thee and me love V y 



168 BURNS S POEMS. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMURE, 
TAYMOUTH. 



Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view. — 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste ; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village glittering in the noontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 

And look through Nature with creative fire ; 

Here, to the wrongs of fate half-reconciled, 

Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 

Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her 

scan, 
And injured Worth forget and pardon man. 



BURNS S POEMS. 169 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where thro' a shapeless breach his stream resounds. 

As high in air his bursting torrents flow, 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear astonish'd rends. 

Dim seen thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, 

The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs. 

Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 

And still below the horrid cauldron boils — 



POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, OF WOODHOUSELEE, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 



Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have revered on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scofnngly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry ; 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 



170 BURNS S POEMS. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss, 

*P *K *K *f* *p *»* 

****** 
****** 

But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 
And ushers the long dreary night ; 

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

OX NITH-SIDE. 






Thou whom chance may hither lead, — 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As youth and love, with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale \ 



BURNS S POEMS. 171 

Check thy climbing step elate, 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 

Soar around each cliffy hold, 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-nook of ease, 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one % 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heaven, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self- enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



172 BURNS S POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRAY. 



When Nature her great masterpiece design'd, 
And framed her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires : 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes the Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleased, pronounced it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half -jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it ;) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 

Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 



BURNS S POEMS. 173 

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful Muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on Life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend I" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor " will do " wait upon " I should " — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good % 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race ; 
Come thou, who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times, 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command : 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 



174 BURNs's POEMS. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist ! assume the plough again : 

The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteen-pence a week I've lived before. 

Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift ; 

That placed by thee upon the wished-for height, 

Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight, 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

(Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.) 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 
Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, 
With little admiring or blaming; LSir, 

The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it ! 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. 



Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 



BURNS S POEMS. 175 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, — 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
0, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



VERSES 

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 



The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander 'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train* ; 

Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd well f, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane J. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky ; 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, 

In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war ; 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And braved the mighty monarchs of the world. — 

* The King's Park, at Holyrood House, 
t St. Anthony's Well. t St. Anthony's Chapel. 



176 BURNS S POEMS. 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping Arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh. — 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

" My patriot falls — but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name ? 

No, every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

u And I will join a mother's tender cares, 

Through future times to make his virtues last. 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs." — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 
January 1, 1789. 



For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 

E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 

But, oh ! prodigious to reflect, 

A towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck ! 

Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 

What dire events ha'e taken place ! 

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 

In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
An' our gude wife's wee birdie cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 



BURNS S POEMS. 177 

Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupit ; 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursel's, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' : 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gi'e again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, ev'n the yirth itself does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care ! 
Thou now hast got thy daddie's chair ; 
Nae handcuffd, muzzled, half-shackl'd Regent, 
But, like himsel', a full, free agent. 
Be sure to follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As muckle better as you can. 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 



My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortured gums alang ; 
And through my lugs gi'es mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, 
Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

N 



178 BURNS S POEMS. 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

Of a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth- Ache, sureiy bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel, 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth-ache. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. 



Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither' d beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 



BURNS S POEMS. 179 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo ! there she goes — unpitied and unblest ! 

She goes — but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies ! lift thine eyes 
(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends), 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends \ 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
? Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell- ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heav'n. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT, DUMFRIES. 



What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play and that new sang is comin' ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend, like whiskey, when imported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gi'e us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell ? 
n 2 



180 BURNS S POEMS. 

Where are the muses fled that could produce 

A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 

Wrench 'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 

O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 

Vain all the omnipotence of female charms 

'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 

A woman, though the phrase may seem uncivil, 

As able and as cruel as the devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age ; 

And though your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 

Perhaps if bowls rowe right, and Right succeeds, 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye ha'e generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks ha'e done their best ! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon ha'e poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar Fame blow until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle Time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
u Whase aught thae chiels mak' a' this bustle here?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We ha'e the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before you strike, — 
An' gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks ; 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



BURNS S POEMS. 181 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 



Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little of that life remains : 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains, 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 



PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW-YEAR'S-DAY EVENING. 



No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity : 

Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough 'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day ;" 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — « Think ! " 



182 BURNS S POEMS. 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush' d with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way : 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doiug, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



DELIA.— AN ODE. 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 

But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 

But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour' d busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

let me steal one liquid kiss, 

For Oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 183 



FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED TO THE BIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 



How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man, for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks : 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one-ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, [bours: 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neigh- 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him ! 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other \ there's more in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find ; 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



184 BURNS S POEMS. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



Ellisland, Oct. 21, 1789. , 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie, 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald myself by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak' my letter ! 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
An' tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier ? 
I'm turn'd a gauger — peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Loup, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men, 

I ha'e-a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun ha'e brose an' brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursel's my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

* The Rev. Robert Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and 
various other works of merit. 



BURNS S POEMS. 185 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and ear' ! 
Not hut I ha'e a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers % 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse and scant o' time,) 
To mak' a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life. 

My compliments to Sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Luckie, 
I wat she is a daintie chuckie 

As e'er trade clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

Robert Burns. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 

To run the twelvemonth's length again : 

I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 

Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 

To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer ; 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 



186 BURNS S POEMS. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachael's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 

And join with me in moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

u Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion % 

" The passing moment's all we rest on I" 

Rest on ! — for what ? what do we here \ 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amused with proverb' d lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of Nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight ; 

That future life, in worlds unknown, 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woful night. — 

Since then, my honour' d, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends, 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim your chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



BURNS S POEMS. 187 



TO A GENTLEMAN 

WHO HAD SENT BURNS A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Ellisland, 1790. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 

How guess 'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted % 

This monie a day I've grain 'd and gaunt ed, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doing ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off ; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or, if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt ; 

If Denmark, any body spak' o't ! 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades, were hingin', 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court, keep up the game ; 

How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaiket Charlie gat his nieve in : 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was grown oughtlins doucer. 

And no a perfect kintra cooser : 

A' this and mair I never heard of ; 

And but for you I might despair' d of. 

So, gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! 



188 BURNs's POEMS. 



ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS 
IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMfGHTY GOD. 



But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchfess, heav'nly light. 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle deevil wi' a woodie 
Harl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's seP shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns .! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join ye, Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'ly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first of flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head, 

At e'en, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' the rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 



BURNs's POEMS. 189 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse, that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews, calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clamoring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay 5 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlcls, wha lies in clay 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 



190 BURNS* S POEMS. 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lav in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Stop, passenger ! my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief, 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at Fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ! 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kin' man ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 191 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 

Like the unchanging blue, man ; 
This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 

For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whinging sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



THE FIVE CARLINES; 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 



Tune — " Chevy Chase." 

There were Five Carlines in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lunnun town 

To bring them tidings hame ; 

Nor only bring them tidings hame, 

But do their errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith •, 

A dame wi' pride eneugh ; 
And Marjory o' the Monylochs f 9 

A carline auld and teugh ; 

And blinkin' Bess o'Annandale J, 

That dwells near Solway side ; 
And whiskey Jean, that took her gill 

In Galloway sae wide § ; 

And black Joan frae Crichton Peel [|, 

O' gipsy kith and kin, 
Five wightier carlines were na foun' 

The south countrie within. 

* Dumfries. t Lochmaben. $ Annan. 

§ Kirkcudbright. i| Sanquhar* 



192 BURNS S POEMS. 

To send a lad to Lunnun town, 

They met upon a day, 
And mony a knight and mony a laird, 

This errand fain wad gae. 

Oh ! mony a knight and mony a laird 

This errand fain wad gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please : 

Oh ! ne'er a ane but tway. 

The first ane was a belted knight *, 

Bred o' a Border band, 
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, 

Might nae man him withstand ; 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lunnun court 

Would bid to him gude day. 

The niest came in a sodger youth f , 

And spak' wi' modest grace, 
And he wad gae to Lunnun toun 

If sae their pleasure was : 

He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, 

Nor meikle speech pretend, 
But he wad hecht an honest heart, 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, 

At strife thir carlines fell, 
For some had gentlefolks to please, 

And some wad please themsel'. 

Then out spak' mim-mou'd Meg of Nith, 

And she spak' up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide ; 

For the auld guidman o' Lunnun £ court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son §. 

* Sir J. Johnstone. + Mr. Miller. 

t George in. § The Prince of Wales. 



BURNS S POEMS. 193 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, 

And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the Border knight, 

Though she should vote her lane ; 

For far-aff fowls ha'e feathers fair, 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I ha'e tried the Border knight, 

And I'll try him yet again. 

Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 

A carline sour and grim, 
The auld guidman or the young guidman 

For me may sink or swim ; 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang, 

While knaves laugh them to scorn ; 
But the sodger's friends ha'e blawn the best, 

So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whiskey Jean spak' ower her drink : 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, 

His back's been at the wa' ; 

And mony a friend that kiss't his caup, 

Is now a fremit wight, 
But it's ne'er be said o' whiskey Jean — 

We'll send the Border knight. 

Then slow rase Marjory o' the Lochs, 

And wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, 

Her auld Scots heart was true ; 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will sen' to Lunnun toun 

Wham I like best at hame. 

Sae how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell, 
God grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel' ! 



194 BURNS S POEMS. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES. 



Mossgiel, Feb. 22nd, 1789. 
Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, 
To which I'm free to tak' my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, — 
I ha'e four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle ; 
My land-afore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been ; 
My land-ahin's a weel-gaun filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie, 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
But ance when in my wooing pride 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too !) 
I play'd my filly sic a shavie, 
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. 
My fur-ahin', a wordy beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie, 
Forby a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran afore a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

. Wheel carriages I ha'e but few : 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin' and for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother. 



BURNS* S POEMS. 195 

I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And aften labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the Questions tairge them tightly, 
Till, faith ! wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servan' station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye ha'e laid nae tax on misses ; 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Eneugh of aught ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare, 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit I 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that, 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna scrieve me in your buke, 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic 

Robert Burns. 



o 2 



196 BURNS S POEMS. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 

A TALE. 
Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. — Gawix Douglas. 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearin' late, 
And folk begin to tak' the gate ; 
While we sit bousin' at the nappy, 
And getting foil and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gatherin' her brows like gatherin' storm, 
Nursin' her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses 
For honest men and bonnie lasses.) 

Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roarin' fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied that, late or soon, 
Thou wad be found deep drown' d in Doon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthened sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : — Ae market-night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 197 

Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely, 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 
And aye the ale was growin' better ; 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn didna mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown' d himseP amang the nappy ! 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
An' sic a night he tak's the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind* blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The ratt'ling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
That night a child might understand, 
The de'il had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 



198 BURNs's POEMS. 

Whiles hauding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi* prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was 'cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars through the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil, 
Wi' usquebaugh we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared na de'ils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish' d, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gi'e them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gar't them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl ! — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 199 

And by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light ; 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carline swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, Tarn ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strappin' in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white se'enteen-hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' gude blue hair, 
I wad ha'e gi'en them aff my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 
But wither 'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Louping and flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam ^enn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the corps, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith muckle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear ;) 



200 BURNS S POEMS. 

Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cower, 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And notch' d and blew wi' might and main ; 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tam ! thou'lt get thy fairin' ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross. 

* It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, 
have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle 
of the next running stream. It may he proper likewise to mention 
to the "benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, what- 
ever danger may he in his going forward, there is much more hazard 
in turning hack. 



BURNS S POEMS. 201 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carline claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys owre dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Jrae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you, taking notes, 

And faith, he'll prent it ! 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco sleight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, howlet-haunted biggin' *, 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin', 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin' 

At some black art. 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 



202 BURNS S POEMS. 

Ilk gliaist that haunts auld ha' or cham'er, 

Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, 

And you deep -read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets *, 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets 

A towmont gude ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

0' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, Grose ! 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee. 

* Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons. 



BURNS S POEMS. 203 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER ENCLOSING A LETTER 
TO CAPT. GROSE; 

TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. 



Tune — " Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose % 

Igo & ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes \ 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo & ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo & ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo & ago. 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Whare'er he be, the Lord be near him % 

Igo & ago, 
As for the deil, he daur nae steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo & ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye ha'e auld stanes in store, 

Igo & ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo & ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



204 BURNs's POEMS. 



VERSES TO CHLORIS, 

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON A BLANK LEAF OF A COPY 
OF HIS POEMS. 



Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower ;) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind. 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 



BURNS S POEMS. 205 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 



[As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall 
here give it. — In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came 
to Scotland, with our James the Sixth, there came over also a 
Danish 'gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a 
matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, 
and whoever was the last able to blow it, everybody else being dis- 
abled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as 
a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, 
without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, 
Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; and 
challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his 
prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. — After many 
overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by 
Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy 
baronet of that name; who, after three days' and three nights' hard 
contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost 
the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a 
sister of Sir Walter's.— On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at 
Friar's-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related 
in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and repre- 
sentative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose 
family it had continued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of Craig- 
darroch , likewise descended of the great Sir Robert : which last 
gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field.] 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda *, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
"This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventured, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

* See Ossian's Caric-thura. 



206 BURNS S POEMS. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatclrd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain 'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw : 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines, 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients ! " Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More *, 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. 

* See Dr. Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



BURNS S POEMS. 207 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a corps, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well worn out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high ruling elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend % 
Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
te Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! " 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 



The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep a bard 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down wi' years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 



208 BURNS S POEMS. 

And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 
And as he tuned his doleful sang, 

The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 
To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods, that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending, aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay ; 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 



BURNS S POEMS* 209 

"In poverty's low barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found 'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

66 O ! why has worth so short a date, 

While villains ripen, grey with time ? 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day % 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! " 



LINES 

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD OF WHITEFOORD, BART, 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 



Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st ; 

To thee this votive offering I impart, 

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron loved ; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approved. 

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. 



210 BURNs's POEMS. 



POEM, 



ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 



Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wantin' thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake ! the meikle deil, 

Wi' a' his witches, 
Are at it, skelpin, jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

1 modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 

That one-pound-one, I sairly want it : 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And, while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear 't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin' 

To thee and thine — 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by gude luck I lap a wicket, 

And turned a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then farewell, folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and ay. 



BURNS S POEMS. 211 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Tune— Killicrankie. 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clencli'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation mist 

His argument he tint it ; 
He gaped for't, he graped for't, 

He fand it was awa', man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked it out wi' law, man. 

MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And eyed the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driven hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST, AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

Written by desire of the Poet's friend, the Earl ofBuclian. 



While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes ^Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 

And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed ; 
p 2 



212 BURNS'S POEMS. 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the Year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 

OF FfNTRAY. 



Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground. 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. — 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all the omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Pier tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun, 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 2 1 3 

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those alas ! not Amalthea's horn ; 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall' d I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear. 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead even resentment for his injured page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage. 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased, 
For half-starved snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder, " some folks " do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clew of hope, 
And through disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 



214 BURNS S POEMS. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown : 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 

OF FINTRAY. 
ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 



I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new ? 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres^ 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 215 

THE VISION. 

A FRAGMENT. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant- echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,* 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attired as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin' look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet graved was plain, 
The sacred posy — " Libertie ! " 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might roused the slumbering dead to hear ; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy the former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna venture't in my rhymes. 

* The ruins of Lincluden Abbey. 



216 BURNS S POEMS. 



TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ., OF TERR AUGHT Y, 

ON HfS BIRTH-DAY. 



Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief ! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief : 
Inspired, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o'. seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny, 

Bless them and thee. 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the de'il he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye : 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If niest my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me. 



INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. 



Those of an independent mind, 

With soul resolved, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who will not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



BURNS S POEMS. 217 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN; 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE 
ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT. 



While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection : 
The tender flower that lifts its head elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate 's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone, we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah ! 5a ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



218 BURNS'S POEMS. 



MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 



How cold is that bosom which folly once fired ! 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistened ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired ! 

How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection removed ; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate ! — 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear ; 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed ; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay, 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ON PASTORAL POETRY. 



Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee what crowds ha'e swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes ha'e starved, 

? Mid a' thy favours ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 219 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin, skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sang, 

But wi' miscarriage \ 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him 'lives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Ev'n Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus ! wha matches ? 
They 're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

0' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters* 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 

Yes, there is ane — a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane — come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk beyond the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou 's for ever I 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines : 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes, 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 



220 BURNS S POEMS. 

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love, 
That charm, that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



SONNETS. 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF GLEN-RIDDEL. 

April, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? [lies. 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier ; 
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JAN., 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, 
ON HEARING A THRUSH SfNG IN A MORNING WALK. 



Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ! 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content, with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments — bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ! 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll 
share. 



BURNS S POEMS. 221 



IMPROMPTU 

ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY, 4TH NOV. 1793. 



Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd : 
" What have I done, of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags dreary, slow : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 

66 Now, Jove, for once, be mighty civil, 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and I've no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day ! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me." 
" 'Tis done !" says Jove ; — so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are plied, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels to account. — 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai ! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 



222 BURNS S POEMS. 

The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobwebb'd gothic dome resounded Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, 

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 

Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert 

Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art ; 

So grim, deform 'd with horrors, entering U, 

His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptized him eu 3 and lucked him from his sight. 



LIBERTY.— A FRAGMENT. 



Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among — 
Thee famed for martial deed and sacred song — 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled % 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. — 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 



BURNS S POEMS. 223 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 



Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph 'd in a blow 
As that which laid the accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget % 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stored, 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail % 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ; 

But like the sun eclipsed at. morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ! 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



224 BURNS S POEMS. 



ADDRESS, 



SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, DEC. 4, 1795, 
AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 



Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 

So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes.; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 

And last my Prologue-business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 

" I know your bent — these are no laughing times ; 

Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears, — 

Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears, 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 

Waving on high the desolating brand, 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land \ " 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery 's another word for Grief ; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — A 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch I 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich . 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck- - 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 



BURNS S POEMS. 225 

Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf % 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself ; 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 



Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



TO A YOUNG LADY 

(MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES) ; WITH BOOKS WHICH THE 
BARD PRESENTED HER. 



Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward : 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 

Q 



226 BURNS* S POEMS. 



VERSES TO J. RANKINE, 



[The person to whom his Poem on shooting the Partridge is addressed 
while Rankine occupied the farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.] 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 5 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter ; 
Ashamed himseP to see the wretches, 

He mutters, glowrin' at the b s, 

" By God I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the spiritual corps present them, 
Without, at least, ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" Lord God ! " quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, i' faith!" 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 



Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley — 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 227 



TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER. 



Dumfries, 1796. 
My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your int'rest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart ha'e I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill 

And potion glasses. 

what a cantie warl' were it, 

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And Fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve ; 
(And ay a rowth roast-beef and claret, 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay wavering like the willow- wicker, 

J Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrons by a ratton, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye '11 ne'er cast saut on, 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare, 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 
Q 2 



228 BURNS S POEMS. 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quit my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! Amen ! 



LINES 

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ;) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. ; 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

"For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 



INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Born September 5th, 1751.— Died 15th October, 1774. 
No sculptured marble here, no pompous lay, 

66 No storied urn nor animated bust," 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 



FOR R. A., ESQ. 
Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much loved, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



230 BURNS S POEMS. 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hie jacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul, he ne'er had ony. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 

Here lies Johnny Pigeon ; 
What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desired to ken, 
To some other warP 
Maim follow the carle, 

For here Johnny Pigeon had nane ! 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento rnori ; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blamed ; 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be saved, or damn'd ! 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 
Here Souter Hood in death does sleep ; 

To hell if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gi'e him thy gear to keep, 

He'll haud it weel the either. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b — ch 

Into thy dark dominion. 



BURNS S POEMS. 231 



ON A WRITER IN DUMFRIES. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man I 
Cheat him, Devil, if you can. 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, 
FIFE-SHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes : 
O Satan, when ye tak' him, 

Gi'e him the schoolin' of your weans ; 
For clever de'ils he'll mak' 'em ! 



ON A HEN-PECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman ruled, 
The devil ruled the woman. 



ON THE SAME. 

O Death ! hadst thou but spared his life, 

Whom we this day lament ; 
We freely wad exchanged the wife, 

And a' been weel content. 

Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Tak' thou the carline's carcase aff, 

Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



ON THE SAME. 



One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When deprived of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, 
She reduced him to dust, and she drank up the powder ; 
But Queen Netherplace, of a different complexion, 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have eat her dead lord on a slender pretence, 
Not to show her respect, but — to save the expense. 



232 BURNS S POEMS. 



ON WAT. 

Such a reptile was "Wat, 

Such a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms damned him 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starved reptile cries ; 
u And his heart is rank poison," 

Another replies. 



ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE. 

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying ; 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, 

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, 

Astonished, confounded, cried Satan, " By G — ! 

I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load." 



ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa', 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 

To school in bands thegither, 
tread ye lightly on this grass, 

Perhaps he was your father. 



ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, 

WHO WAS NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON. 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes, 
Who said that not the soul alone, 

But body too must rise : 
For had he said, " the soul alone 

From death I will deliver ;" 
Alas ! alas ! Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever. 



l 



BURNS S POEMS. 233 



LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE. 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had fiow'd. 



TO MR. SYME, 

IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO JOIN A DINNER PARTY. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER, 

0, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of humankind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN 
THE REV. DR. B 'S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny, 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie ? 



ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATIONS OF MARTIAL'S 
EPIGRAMS. 

thou, whom poesy abhors, 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan % proceed no farther ; 
'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring Murther ! 



234 BURNS S POEMS. 



ON MISS J. SCOTT OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times 
Been Jeanie Scott, as thou art, 

The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 



WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN 
DUMFRIES. 

The greybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, 

Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him, calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But Folly has raptures to give. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD 
GALLOWAY. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ! 

Flit, Galloway ! and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE SAME. 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 
The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



ON THE SAME. 
Bright ran thy line, Galloway, 

Thro' many a far-famed sire ! 
So ran the far-famed Roman way, 

So ended in a mire ! 



TO THE SAME, 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 



Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



BURNS S POEMS. 235 



ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD MADE MISS DA VIES SO 
LITTLE, AND MRS. * * * SO LARGE. 

Written on a pane of glass in the inn at Moffat. 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

And why so huge the granite ? 
Because God meant mankind should set 

The higher value on it. 



WRITTEN AT INVERARY. 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace, 

There's naething here but Highland pride, 
And Highland cauld and hunger ; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in an anger ! 



A VERSE 
Composed and repeated by Burns to the Master of the House, on 
taking leave at a place in the Highlands, where he had been hospi- 
tably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things that were. 



THE CREED OF POVERTY. 

In politics if thou would'st mix, 
And mean thy fortunes be, 

Bear this in mind — be deaf and blind ; 
Let great folks hear and see. 



236 BURNS S POEMS. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. 

We came na here to view your warks, 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 

But whan we tirPd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching old wives' barrels, 

Och hone ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels, 

But — what'll ye say \ 
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW AT THE KING'S ARMS TAVERN. 
DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 

'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hearing : — 

What are your landlords' rent-rolls? teasing ledgers: 
What premiers, what I even monarchs' mighty gaugers : 

Nay what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen % 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want I 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

Amen. 



BURNS S POEMS. 237 



EXTEMPORE. 

WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE OF BURNS, 
WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR' AT A TAVERN. 

The King's most humble servant, I 

Can scarcely spare a minute ; 
But I'll be wi' ye by an' by. 

Or else the devil's in it. 



EXTEMPORE LINES 

DELIVERED AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, ON 
THE ANNIVERSARY OF ADMIRAL RODNEY'S VICTORY, APRIL 12. 1/82, 
WHEN BURNS WAS CALLED ON FOR A SONG. 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; 
That we lost, did I say \ nay, by heav'n, that we found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King — 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ! 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny damn'd; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial I 



THE HEN-PECKED HUSBAND. 

Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has no sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell ! 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — ch. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HANDSOME NELL*. 



Tune — " I am a man unmarried." 

0, once I loved a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that honour warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet ; 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look week 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 

* This was our Poet's first attempt. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 239 



BONNIE LESLEY. 



Tune—" The Collier's bonnie daughter." 

saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the Border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The de'il he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, (t I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha*na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caleconie ! 
That we may brag, we ha'e a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



FRAGMENT. 



Tune — " I had a horse, and I had nae mair." 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was na steady, 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade 

A mistress still I had aye : 

But when I cam' roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' ony body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



240 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



TIBBIE, I HA'E SEEN THE DAY. 



Tune — " Invercauld's Reel." 

CHORUS. 

Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day, 

Ye wad nae been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

Bat, troivth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye ha'e the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try ; 

But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean, 
Although his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows onie saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 

Although a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 

But if he ha'e the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Though hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

But Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice, 
Your daddie's gear mak's you sae nice ; 
The de'il a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wad na gie her in her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 241 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING, 



e These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are among the 
oldest of my printed pieces." — Burns's Reliques. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy' d ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle Fortune has deceived me, 

(She promised fair, and perform' d but ill ;) 
Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



LUCKLESS FORTUNE, 



O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O, 

raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! 0. 

My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow, ; 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 
And made my branches grow, O. 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, 0, 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, 0. 
****** 



242 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 



Tune — " The Deuks dang o'er my Daddy ! " 

Nae gentle dames, though e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gi'e me my highland lassie, 0. 

Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, 0, 
I set me down wi' right good will 
To sing my highland lassie, 0. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my highland lassie, 0. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I'll love my highland lassie, 0. 

Although through foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 

For her I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, 0. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, Of 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my highland lassie, 0! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 243 



JOHN BARLEYCORN*. 



There were three kings into the east, 

Three kings both great and high. 
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough' d him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And showers began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken' d more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

* This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by 
the same name. 

r 2 



244 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him further woe, 
And still, as signs of life appear' d, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones. 

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy ; 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Though the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



MONTGOMERIE'S PEGGY. 

A FRAGMENT. 



Tune—" Galla Water." 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 

Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 
Yet happy, happy would I be 

Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gi'e o' joy to me, 

The sharin' 't with Montgomerie's Peggy. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 245 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 



Tune — " Corn rigs are bonnie." 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa' to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley* 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down wi' right good will 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I ken'd her heart was a' my ain ; 

I loved her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely ! 
My blessings on that happy place 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
But by the moon and stars sae bright, 

That shone that hour sae clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I ha'e been blithe wi' comrades dear ; 

I ha'e been merry drinking ; 
I ha'e been joyfu' gathering gear ; 

I ha'e been happy thinking ; 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Though three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a' 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs an' barley rigs, 

And corn rigs are bonnie ; 
I'll ne'er forget that happy night 
' Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



246 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER*. 



Tune—" The Weaver and his Shuttle. 

My Father was a Farmer 

Upon the Carrick border, 
And carefully he bred me 

In decency and order. 
He bade me act a manly part, 

Though I had ne'er a farthing, 
For without an honest manly heart, 

No man was worth regarding. 

Then out into the world, 

My course I did determine, 
Though to be rich was not my wish, 

Yet to be great was charming. 
My talents they were not the worst, 

Nor yet my education ; 
Resolved was I, at least to try, 

To mend my situation. 

In many a way, and vain essay, 

I courted fortune's favour ; 
Some cause unseen still stept between, 

To frustrate each endeavour ; 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; 

Sometimes by friends forsaken ; 
And when my hope was at the top 

I still was worst mistaken. 

Then sore harassed, and tired [at last, 

With fortune's vain delusion ; 
I dropt my schemes like idle dreams, 

And came to this conclusion — 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; 

Its good or ill untried ; 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, 

And so I would enjoy it. 

* " This song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versifica- 
tion, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for 
that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over." 

Burns's Reliques, p. 329. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 247 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; 

Nor person to befriend me ; 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, 

And labour to sustain me. 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, 

My father bred me early ; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, 

Was a match for fortune fairly. 

Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, 

Through life I'm doom'd to wander, 
Till down my weary bones I lay 

In everlasting slumber : 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er 

Might breed me pain or sorrow ; 
I live to-day, as well's I may, 

Regardless of to-morrow. 

But cheerful still, I am as well 

As a monarch in a palace, 
Though fortune's frown still hunts me down, 

With all her wonted malice ; 
I make, indeed, my daily bread, 

But ne'er can make it farther ; 
But as daily bread is all I need, 

I do not much regard her. 

When sometimes by my labour 

I earn a little money, 
Some unforeseen misfortune 

Comes generally upon me ; 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, 

Or my good-natured folly ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, 

I'll ne'er be melancholy. 

All you who follow wealth and power 

With unremitting ardour, 
The more in this you look for bliss, 

You leave your view the farther : 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, 

Or nations to adore you, 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown 

I will prefer before you. 



248 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 

SONG, 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 



Tune — " I had a horse, I had nae mair." 
Now westlin' winds, and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 249 



THE RANTIN' DOG THE DADDIE O'T *. 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy % 
Wha will tent me when I cry \ 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will own he did the fau't \ 
Wha will buy my groaning maut \ 
Wha will tell me what to ca't ? 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there \ 
Gi'e me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak 1 me fidgin' fain? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 



O LEAVE NOVELS. 



Tune — " Mauchline Belles." 

leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 
Such witching books are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel, 
They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poison'd darts of steel, 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 

* " I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young 
girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time 
under a cloud." — Burns's Reliques, p. 278. 



250 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



NANNIE. 



Tune — " My Nannie, O." 

Behind yon hills where Lugar* flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, 0, 

The wintry sun the day has closed, 
And I'll awa' to Nannie, 0. 

The westlin' wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk an' rainy, ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal. 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, 0. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young, 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, : 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, ! 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she 's bonnie, : 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, ; 

But what care I how few they be ? 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, 0. 

My riches a' 's my penny fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, ; 

But I'm as blythe that haud his pleugh, 
An' ha'e nae care but Nannie, 0. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak' what Heav'n will sen' me, ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 

* Originally Stinchar. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 251 



FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR. 



Tune — "Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

wert thou, love, but near me. 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine y love / 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy. 
No shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
O wert thou, &c. 

Cold, alter' d friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert thou, &c. 

But dreary though the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert thou, &c. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS. 

A FRAGMENT. 



Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O what a feast her bonnie mou' ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



t 

252 BURNS* S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CARE. 



Tune — " Green grow the rushes." 

Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, 

Were spent amang the lasses, ! 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An 'twere na for the lasses, ? 

The warl'y race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gi'e me a cannie hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, ; 

An' warl'y cares, an' warl'y men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

For you sae douce, wha sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, ; 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, 0. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, 0. 

Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, 

Were spent amang the lasses, ! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 253 



ROBIN. 



Tune—" Dainty Davie." 

There was a lad was born at Kyle*, 
But what na day o' what na style — 
I doubt it 's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Januar' win' 
Blew handsel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof : 
Quo' scho, "Wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae cuif, 
I think we '11 ca' him Robin. 

" He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

" But sure as three times three mak' nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin' — 
So leeze me on thee, Robin ! 

" Guid faith," quo' scho, " I doubt ye'U gar 
The bonnie lasses lie aspar, 
But twenty faults ye may ha'e waur, 
So blessin's on thee, Robin ! " 

Robin was a rovin' boy, 8$c. 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

* Kyle — a district of Ayrshire. The reader need not be informed 
who " Robin" was.— Ed. 



254 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



BONNIE PEGGY ALISON. 



Tune— " Braes o' Balquhidder." 

ril kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again, 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, ; 
Young kings upon their handsel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, ! 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, ! 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, ; — 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O I 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again. 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 



MY JEAN. 

[This beautiful Fragment is an early Composition.] 
Tune — " The Northern Lass." 

Though cruel Fate should bid us part, 

As far 's the Pole and Line, 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Though mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 255 



YOUNG PEGGY. 



[This is one of the Poet's earliest compositions. It is copied 
from a MS. book which he had before his first publication — 
Cromek.~\ 

Tune — " The last time I came owre the muir." 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With pearly gems adorning. 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them. 
Her smiles are like the evening mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her ; 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of savage, surly winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And spiteful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, 

From every ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame, 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



25G BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 



[Recovered from the recitation of a lady in Glasgow, and 
first published by Cromek.] 

Tune—' 1 If he be a butcher neat and trim." 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass — 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weel-far'd face, 
And the glancin' of her sparklin' een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she 's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in-the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An she 's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she 's tw r a glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she 's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 257 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 

With fleeces newly washen clean, 
That slowly mount the rising steep ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching Beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her sparklin' een. 



MARY. 

Tune — " Blue Bonnets." 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home*. 

* Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the poet's 
departure to the West Indies. 



258 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE CURE FOR ALL CARE. 



Tune—" Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly." 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write. 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his purse ; 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle 's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," * — a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him? that wore the black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Masonic Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ! 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 

* Young's Night Thoughts. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 259 



MENIE. 

Tune — "Johnny's Grey Breeks." 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 

All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, an* it's like a hawk, 
An* it winna let a body be * / 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me 's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When nature all is sad like me ! 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 

An* it winna let a body be. 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in 
Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. Menie is the 
common abbreviation of Marianne. 
s 2 



260 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 



Tune — " Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff." 

'Twas even — the dewy fields w r ere green, 

On every blade the pearls hang ; 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in a lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

0, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



BURNSS SONGS AND BALLADS. 261 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. 



Tune—" Good night, and joy be wi' you a' ! " 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Though I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, though far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honoured with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the bard that's far awa'. 



262 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 



whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tliough father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be ajee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 

whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er you meet me, 
Gang by me as though that ye cared na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

whistle, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, though jokin' ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 



ELIZA. 

Tune—" Gilderoy." 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar ; 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 263 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more : 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While Death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh. 



I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN. 



[Of this song the chorus and second stanza are old.] 
Tune—" I'm owre young to marry yet." 

I am my mammie's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; 
And lying in a man's bed, 

I'm fley'd, wad mak' me eerie, Sir. 

I'm owre young, I'm owre young, 
I'm owre young to marry yet ; 

I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin 
To tak' mefrae my mammie pet. 

My mammie coft me a new gown, 
The kirk maun ha'e the gracing o't ; 

Were I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Hallowmas is come and gane, 

The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 

And you an' I in ae bed, 

In troth I dare na venture, Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir ; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 



26*4 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE 
COUNTRY. 



[Burns intended this song as a farewell dirge to his native land, 
from which he was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. "I 
had taken," says he, '•« the last farewell of my friends : my chest 
was on the road to Greenock : I composed the last song I should 
ever measure in Caledonia, — * The gloomy night is gathering 
fast.' "] 

Tune — " Roslin Castle." 

' The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter' d coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest wi' care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid azure sky 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

? Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore : 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound : 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! M 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 265 



BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO. 

Tune — " The Birks of Atsergeldie." 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 

The little birdies blithely sing, 

Or lightly flit on wanton wing 

In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 



Tune — " Morag." 
Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle- Gordon ! 



266 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle Gordon. 



MCPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 



Tune — " M'Pherson's Lament." 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaecl he ; 
He play'd a spring and danced it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ? — 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dared his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring and danced it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 267 



THICKEST NIGHT O'ERHANG MY DWELLING. 



Tune— " Strathallan's Lament." 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens denied success. 

Bum's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 



[The chorus of this song is old.] 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wV snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
Up in the morning, &c. 

The birds sit cluttering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
Up in the morning, &c. 



208 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 



Tune — " Andro and his cutty gun." 
Blithe, blithe and merry ivas she y 

Blithe was she hut and ben: 
Blithe by the banks of Em, 

But blither in Glenlurit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb's upon a lea, 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie 's e'e. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I ha'e been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe was she but and ben : 
Blithe by the banks of Em, 

But blither in Glenturit glen. 



STAY, MY CHARMER. 



Tune — " An Gillie dubh ciar-dhubh." 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



BURNS* S SONGS AND BALLADS. 269 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune—" Bhannerach dhon na cri." 
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 



Tune — " M'Grigor of Ruara's Lament." 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella strayed deploring : 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow — 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

u O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load, to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee 1" 



270 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. 



Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

For oh, her lanely nights are Jang, 
And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 
TJiat's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie \ 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary! 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh, her lanely nights are lang, 
And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 
TJiat's absent frae her dearie. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 



Tune—" The Shepherd's Wife." 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS, 271 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood ; 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird ! young Jeannie fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud ! young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 

[This song was written in honour of Mrs. Burns.] 
Tune — " My love is lost to me." 

were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee ! 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-Ian g simmer's day, 

1 couldna sing, I couldna say, 

How much — how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And ay I muse and sing thy name : 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run, 

Till then — and then I'd love thee. 



272 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



STREAMS THAT GLIDE. 



Tune— 1 ' Morag." 
Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ! 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 

In that sober pensive mood,~ 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave 

By bonnie Castle Gordon. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 



Tune—" Johnny M'Gill." 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt ha'e me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 273 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 



Tune — "Druimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa'. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care-untroubled, j oy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa' ! 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 



Tune — " Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny.' 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey 'd, 

When first I felt their povv'r ! 
The tyrant death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



274 BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 



MY HARRY. 

Tune — " Highlander's Lament." 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain : 

But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again I 

for him back again/ 

1 wad gi'e a' Enockhaspie's land, 

For Highland Harry back again, 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
I wander dowie up the glen ; 

I sit me down and greet my fill, 
And ay I wish him back again. 

were some villains hangit high, 
And ilka body had their ain ! 

Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again. 

Ofor him back again/ 

for him back again / 
I wad gi'e a' Enockhaspie's land, 

For Highland Harry back again. 



MY BONNIE MARY*. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

* This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza of the song is old. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 2/5 



BLOOMING NELLY. 



Tune—" The lady of the flowery field.*' 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest : 

When Willie, wand'ring through the wood, 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 

He gazed, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 
And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed, 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed, 

They richer dyed the rose. 

The springing lilies sweetly prest, 
Wild, wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 

He gazed, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 
His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace ! 

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 

He gazed, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 
And sigh'd his very soul ! 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, starting, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs : 

But Willie follow'd — as he should, 
He overtook her in the wood : 

He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all and good. 



t 2 



276 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 



Tune — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 



Tune — " Seventh of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry Line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Gomes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 277 



THE LAZY MIST. 



Irish Air — " Coolun." 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ! 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain ; 

How little Of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress has worn ; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gained ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darkened, how pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 



Tune — " Failse na Miosg." 
[The first half-stanza of this song is old.] 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer : 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



278 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



BEWARE OF BONNIE ANN*. 



Ye gallants bright, I rede you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimpy laced her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van ; 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I rede you a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



FIRST WHEN MAGGIE WAS MY CARE. 



Tune—" Whistle owre the lave o't." 
First when Maggie was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair — 

Whistle owre the lave o't. 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguiled — 

Whistle owre the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 

Whistle owre the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — 

Whistle owre the lave o't. 

* " I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, 
the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, author of the air of 
Strathallan's Lament, and two or three others in this work." 

Burns' Reliques, p. 266. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 279 



CA' THE EWES*. 



Tune — " Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes." 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them vjhare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie ! 

As I gaed down the water side, 
There I met my shepherd lad, 
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 
An' he ca'd me his dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Will ye gang down the water-side, 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide, 
Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? 
The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
Ca' the, &c. 

I was bred up at nae sic school, 
My shepherd lad, to play the fool, 
And a' the day to sit in dool, 
And naebody to see me. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
And ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

If ye' 11 but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, 
And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 
And I sail be your dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
Till clay-cauld death sail blin' my e'e, 
Ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 
* Part of this song is old. 



280 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 



Tune — " Neil Gow's Lament." 

There's a youth in this city, 

It were a great pity 
That he frae our lasses should wander awa' ; 

For he's bonnie an' braw, 

Weel-favoured with a', 
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. 

His coat is the hue 

Of his bonnet sae blue ; 
His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 

His hose they are blae, 

And his shoon like the slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 

For beauty and fortune 

The laddie's been courtin' ; 
Weel featured, weel tocher'd, weel mounted, and braw 

But chiefly the siller, 

That gars him gang till her, 
The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg wi' the mailen 

That fain wad a haen him ; 
And Susie, whose daddie was laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy 

Maist fetters his fancy ; 
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 



John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 281 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And monie a cantie day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



WILLIE BREWED A PECK 0' MAUT. 



[These verses were composed to celebrate a visit which the Poet and 
Allan Masterton made to William Nichol, of the High-school, 
Edinburgh, who happened to be at Moffat during the autumn 
vacation.— -The air is by Masterton.] 

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 

And Rob and Allan cam' to see ; 
Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night, 

Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na'fou, we're nae thatfou, 

But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw', 

But ay we'll taste the barley-bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 

Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 
And mony a night we've "merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be ! 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That's blinkin' in the lift see hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 

But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three ! 

We are na'fou, we're nae thatfou, 

But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw', 

But ay we'll taste the barley-bree. 



282 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 



Tune — " Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff." 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray. 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher' st in the day 

My Mary from my soul w r as torn. 
O Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid 1 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west, 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest % 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 283 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR. 



Tune — (< Cameronian Rant." 

" O cam' ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man 3" 
I saw the battle, sair and teugh, 
And reekin'-red ran monie a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi 5 black cockades 

To meet them were na slaw, man, 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, 

And monie a bouk did fa', man. 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd while broadswords clash'd, 
And through they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

Till fey men died awa', man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin' tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dared our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hasten' d to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" O how de'il, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed "frae the north, man : 
I saw myseP, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And monie a huntit, poor red coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 



284 BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 

My sister Kate cam' up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto nie, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But monie bade the world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



I GAED A WAEFU' GATE, YESTREEN. 

Tune — " Blathrie o't." 

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips, like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyled, 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed, 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow ; 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 285 



MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIE. 



Tune—" The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre," 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak' a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 

There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drummeller, 
" Guid day to you, brute !" he comes ben ; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men : 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gi'e me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him, 
wha will I get but Tam Glen? 

Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing, 
My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was wauken 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam' up the house staukin', 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gi'e you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



286 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 



Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa' ; 
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud,* 

Fu' lightly danced he in the ha' ! 
He roosed my een sae bonnie blue, 

He roosed my waist sae genty sma' ; 
And aye my heart came to my mou', 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw ; 
And o'er the lea I look fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca\ 
And aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he tak's me a' ; 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang 's he has a breath to draw. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 



Tune—" Miss Forbes." 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken' d on the e'e. 
Through faded groves Maria sang, 

HerseP in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes of Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle. 

* The gaud— at the plough. 



BURNS's SONGS AND BALLADS. 287 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 



Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-Burn, 
And blythe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' Spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



GANE IS THE DAY. 



Tune^-" Gudewife, count the lawin." 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the risin' sun. 

Then gudewife, count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin, 
Then gudewife, count the lawin, 

And bring a coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple folk maun fecht and fen', 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then gudewife, &c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink deep ye'll find him out. 
Then gudewife, &c. 



288 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE. 



Tune — "My Tocher's the Jewel." 

meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sa meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' hive's an airl-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye 're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye 're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye '11 slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

An' ye '11 crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THE BANKS OF NTTH. 



Tune—" Robie Donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command. 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ? 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gayly bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton through the broom ! 
Though wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 289 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE; 



What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 

He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', 
He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang, 

He's doylt and he's dozen, his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld antie Katie upon me tak's pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING, 



Tune—" The Lads of Saltcoats.** 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wistfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty 
In ae constellation shine ; 

To adore thee is my duty, 
Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 



290 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 



Tune—" Falkland Fair." 
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, [to feed, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys through the heather 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 

Where the grouse, &c. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me ha'e the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd, clear stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang the wild mountains shall still be my path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath : 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us, unheeded, fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, although she) is fair ; 
O' nice education but sraa' is her share : 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement ha'e polished her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



HOW CAN I BE BLITHE AND GLAD. 



Tune—" Over the bills an' far awaV 
how can I be blithe and glad, 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 

Is o'er the hills and far awa' ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But aye the tear comes in my e"e, 
To think on him that's far awa'. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 291 

My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they ha'e disown'd me a', 

But I ha'e ane will tak' my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa\ 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me, 

And silken snoods he gave me twa ; 
And I will wear them for his sake, 

The bonnie lad that's far awa'. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 

And spring will cleed the birken-shaw ; 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
And he'll come name that's far awa'. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR? 



Tune — " Lass, an I come near thee." 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ! 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here — 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak' ye sae like a thief % 

come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in — 

Let me in, quo' Findlay : 
Ye'll keep me waukin' wi' your din — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay — 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain — 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay : 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again— 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay : 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour — 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
u 2 



292 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. 



Tune — Jacobite air. 

Br yon castle wa', at the close o' the day, 
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare na w r eel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yird : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that sair bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 



I do confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 

Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy, 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 

Though thou may gayly bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 293 



O SAW YE MY DEARIE. 



[Altered from the old song of Eppie Macnab, which had more wit 
than decency.] 

Tune — " Eppie Macnab." 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, 
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab 1 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



NAEBODY. 



I ha'e a wife o' my ain, 
I '11 partake wi' naebody ; 

I '11 tak' cuckold frae nane, 
I '11 gi'e cuckold to naebody. 

I ha'e a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to naebody ; 

I ha'e naething to lend, 
I '11 borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody 's lord, 

I '11 be slave to naebody ; 

I ha'e a guid braid sword, 
I '11 tak dunts frae naebody. 

I '11 be merry and free, 
I '11 be sad for naebody ; 

If naebody care for me, 
I '11 care for naebody. 



294 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



CHLORIS. 

Tune — " My lodging is on the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav' rock shims the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn % 

The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 

The courtier tells a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true % 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



AE FOND KISS, 

Tune—" Rory Dall'sport." 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 295 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. 



O FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM ! 



Tune — '« The Moudiewort." 

An' Ofor ane-and-twenty , Tam ! 

An* hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 

An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam ! 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my aunty, Tam : 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 

They'll ha'e me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I myseP ha'e plenty, Tam : 

But hear'st thou, laddie ? there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam ! 

An' Ofor ane-and-twenty, Tam! 

An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin* sang, 

An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam! 



296 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL. 



Tune — " The sweet lass that lo'es me," 

O leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest ; 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel' 
Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel 

Od lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
A boon distress, below envy, 
O wha would leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



BURNS's SONGS AND BALLADS, 297 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 



Tune — " Tibbie Fowler." 

Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie ; 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Could stown a clue wi' ony body : 

He had a wife was dour and din, 

Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

1 wad na gi'e a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 

The cat has twa, the very colour ; 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
A whiskin' beard about her mou', 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 

Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter ; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion : 
Her walie nieves like midden creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 



298 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Tune— A. Gaelic air. 
Scene — Afield of battle ; time of the day, evening — the wounded 
and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the 
following Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves, and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou for the brave. 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant— he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame. 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not rest with the brave ! 



AS I WAS A-WANDERING. 



[This is an old Highland air, and the title means, f my love did 
deceive me." There is much feeling expressed in this song.] 

Tune — " Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh." 

As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 

The pipers and youngsters were making their game ; 

Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him ; 

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
1 natter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane, 

I couldna get sleeping till dawnin' for greetin', 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain : 

Had I na got greetin', my heart would ha'e broken, 
For, oh ! love forsaken 's a tormenting pain. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 299 

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow, 

Than ever ha'e acted sae faithless to him. 

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, 
I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 

I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 



Tune — " The Posie." 

luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen, 
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the woods sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. [peer ; 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou' ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak' away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, 
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear : 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

Ill tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve; 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



300 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 



Tune — " John, come kiss me now." 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn waved green in ilka field, 
While clover blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will. 
Out spak' a dame in wrinkled eild, 

a 0' guid advisement comes nae ill. — 

" It's ye ha'e wooers mony a ane, 

And lassie, ye 're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routine but, a routine ben : 
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak' this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae well his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear ; 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gi'e 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

" thoughtless lassie ! life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu'-han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

An' wilfu' folk maun ha'e their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 

0, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve bring peace and joy, 

What mair ha'e queens upon a throne % 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 301 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 



Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
Owre the mountains he is gane, 

And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought hut griefs with me remain. 

Spare my love, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beatin' rain ! 

Spare my love, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting owre the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 
Owre the day's fair, gladsome ee, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 



Tune — " Captain O'Kane." 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 

While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills and his right are these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 

My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial, 

Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return % 



302 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

FIRST VERSION. 



Tune—" Catharine Ogie." 

Ye flowering banks o 5 bonnie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree, 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



SECOND VERSION. 



Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons through the flowering thorn 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 303 

Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree : 
But my false luver stole my rose, 

And ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



FAIR ELIZA. 



Tune — " The bonnie brucket Lassie." 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart % 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, ha'e I offended % 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gi'es to me. 



304 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. 



Tune — " Afton Water." 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander, as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ! 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 



The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Whiter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 305 

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old time and nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my Bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 



Tune — " The Weaver's March." 

Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh ! I had wooers eight or nine, 
They gi'ed me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart wad tine, 
And I gi'ed it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher band, 
To gi'e the lad that has the land ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gi'e it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 



Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gi'e ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 
x 



306 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE BAIRNS GAT OUT. 



Tune—" The deuks dang o'er my daddie." 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, ! 
The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirie auld wife, 

He was but a paidlin' body, ! 
He paidles out, an' he paidles in, 

An' he paidles late an' early, O ! 
This seven lang years I ha'e lien by his side, 

An' lie is but a fusionless carlie, ! 

0, haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife, 

0, haud your tongue now, Nansie, ! 
I've seen the day, and sae ha'e ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, ! 
I've seen the day ye butter 'd my brose, 

And cuddled me late and early, ! 
But downa-do's come o'er me now, 

And, oh ! I feel it sairly, ! 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 



She 's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She 's broken her vow, she 's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof came in with routh o' gear, 
And I ha'e tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

T o this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove, 

A woman has 't by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel form 's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been owre meikle to 've gi'en thee mair— 

I mean an angel mind. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 307 



THE EXCISEMAN. 



The de'il cam' fiddling through the town, 
And danced awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 

And ilka wife cried — Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' the prize, man ! 

The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', 
The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman; 

He's danced awa', he's danced awa', 
He's danced awa' wi' the Exciseman. 

We'll mak' our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And monie thanks to the meikle black de'il 
That danced awa' wi' the Exciseman. 

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam' to the land 
Was — the de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman. 

The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', 
The de'il's awa* wi' the Exciseman ; 

He's danced aiva', he's danced awa', 
He's danced awa' wi' the Exciseman. 



THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN. 



The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries — u Alas ! " 

And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e : 
" Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

" Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee. 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel Duke ! 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For monie a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee." 
x 2 



303 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 



Tune — ' ' Wishaw's Favourite." 

O, my hive's like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my hive's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in hive am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee w T eel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Though it were ten thousand mile. 



POLLY STEWART. 



Tune — " Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 
lovely Polly Stewart, 

charming Polly Steivart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 
That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 
. Will gi'e to Polly Stewart. 

May he whase arms shall fauld thy charms 
Possess a leal and true heart ; 

To him be given to ken the heaven 
He grasps in Polly Stewart ! 

lovely Polly Stewart, 

charming Polly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 
That's half so fair as thou art. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 309 



FOR THE SAKE O' SOMEBODY. 



Tune— 1 ' The Highland Watch's Farewell." 

My heart is sair, I darena tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

0, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 



I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass ; 
And stowlins we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken-tree, 

When trystin'-time draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O, haith, she's doubly dear again ! 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



310 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



WHEN JANTJAR' WIND. 



Tune — " The lass that made the bed to me." 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o' my eare ; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And bade her mak' a bed to me. 

She made the bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, u Young man, now sleep ye soun'. 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
And frae the chamber went wi' speed ; 

But I call'd her quickly back again, 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me wi' due respect ; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

" Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
If ye ha'e onie love for me, 

wrang na my virginitie ! " 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 311 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

And aye she wist na what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' — 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But aye she blush'd and aye she sigh'd, 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 

1 clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 
While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e ; 

I said, " My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye aye shall mak' the bed to me." 

She took her mither's holland sheets, 

And made them a' in sarks to me : 
Blythe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 

The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 



O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 

As the mirk night o' December ; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was the chamber : 
And dear was she I darena name, 

But I will ay remember ; 
And dear was she I darena name, 

But I will ay remember. 

And here's to them, that like oursel', 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them ! 
And here's to them, we darena tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum ; 
And here's to them, we darena tell 

The dearest o' the quorum ! 



312 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 



Tunc — " I'll gang nae mair to yon town." 

wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'enin' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year ; 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love not a' the charms 
0' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gi'e me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinking sun's gaun down upon ; 
A fairer than 's in yon town, 

His setting beams ne'er shone upon. 

If angry Fate is sworn my foe, 

And suff 'ring I am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear ! 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart ; 

And she — as fairest is her form, 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. 



Tune—" My mother's aye glow'ring owreme.' 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean : 
Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations swith awa', 
Bief randies, I disown ye ! 



ANNA, THY CHARMS. 



Tune — " Bonnie Mary." 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of heav'n. 



TO THEE, LOVED NITH. 



Tune — Unknown. 

To thee, loved Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I ranged, 

Tho' prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchanged. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he roved that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear ! 



314 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 



Wae is my heart, and the tear 's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me': 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures ; and deep ha'e I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair ha'e I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were happy, where happy I ha'e been, 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green ; 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wlia wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 



Tune—" Wandering Willie." 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi 3 sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair ! 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure ; 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf of the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and my comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair ! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 315 



CASSILLIS' BANKS. 



Tune — Unknown. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassiilis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune canna gi'e me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassiilis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



AMANG THE TREES. 



Tune — " The King of France, he rade a race." 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, 0, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly 0, 
When there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and wearie, ; 
But a royal ghaist wha once was cased 

A prisoner aughteen year awa', 
He fired a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. 



316 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 



My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of humankind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rage disarms — . 
These are all immortal charms. 



THE WINSOME WEE THING. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer, 
And niest my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The wars tie and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 317 



MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. 



Tune — " Gregg's Pipes." 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps andjirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane ; 

By Colin's cottage lies his game, 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude ; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns ; 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 

My lady y s gown, Uiere's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps andjirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 



318 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 



Tune—" Catharine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom' d the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursel's asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! — 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary I 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 31& 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blythe Yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't : 
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin' owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 

For a naughty hizzie die % 

She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Something in her bosom wrings, 

For relief a sigh she brings ; 

And 0, her een, they spak' sic things ! 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan could na be her death, 

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 

Now they're crouse and canty baith. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



320 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 



There's auld Rob Morris that worts in yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my breast. 

0, had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might ha'e hoped she wad smiled upon me I 
0, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. 



Tune — "Banks of Banna." 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs tak' the east and west, 
Frae Indus to Savannah ! 

Gri'e me within my straining grasp 
The melting form of Anna. 



BURNS* S SONGS AND BALLADS. 321 

There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and tak' with Anna ! 

Awa', thou flaunting god o' day, 

Awa'j thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports with my Anna ! 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O. 



Tune—" The Lea Rig." 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin'-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and wearie, ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, 0, 
If through that glen, I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Although the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, 0. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gi'e me the hour o' gloamin' gray, 

It mak's my heart sae cheery, 0, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, 0. 

Y 



322 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



MARY CAMPBELL. 



Tune — "Ewe-bughts, Marion." 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grow the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 ha'e sworn by the heavens to my Mary, 

I ha'e sworn by the heavens to be true ; 
And sae may the heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us, 

The hour, and the moment o' time ! 



O POORTITH CAULD. 



Tune—" I had a horse." 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, 
Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 

Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 

why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest hands untwining? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on fortune's shining? 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 323 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
Fie, fie on silly coward man, 

That he should be the slave o't ! 

Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her o'erword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am % 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 

why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining 9 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on fortune's shining ? 



OH! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME. 



With Alterations. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, ! 
Though thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, O ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, O ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, O ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide : 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, O ! 

My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side ? 
Never to rise again, ! — 
y 2 



324 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Messrs. Erskine and Thomson having suggested some changes 
in the following song, our Poet, with his usual judgment, adopted 
some of their alterations, and rejected others. The last edition is 
as follows : — 

Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie, 
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance niair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



GALLA-WATER. 



There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla- water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla-water. 

Although his daddie was nae laird, 
And though I ha'e na meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in, kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla-water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 325 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. 

Tune — " Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o 1 bonnie blue : 
Her smiling, sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And aye my Chloris ? dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form, and gracefu' air : 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair. 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a 1 . 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gi'e me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a 1 . 



326 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



LORD GREGORY. 



mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be ! 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwin side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied \ 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itseP sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven, that flashest by, 

wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



MARY MORISON. 



Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

O mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! • 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 



BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 327 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
Though this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

u Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die % 
Or canst thou break that heart of his 

Whase only fau't is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gi'e, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 



Tune — " O bonnie lass, will you lie in a Barrack ? " 

ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strapping the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ; 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving : 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix 'd on a mailen ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle — 
But, gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl' ! 






328 BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS BLAWN. 



Tune—" The Mill Mill, O." 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' monie a sweet babe fatherless, 

And monie a widow mourning ; 
1 left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander : 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting-thorn, 

Where l^ancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've served my king and country lang, 

Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gazed on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, A sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and namely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 329 

She gazed — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like onie lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie % 
By Him who made yon sun and sky — 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded ! 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, My granclsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour : 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger ; 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonny Dundee." 
TRUE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes his chain. 

0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthroned in her een he delivers his law, 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 



330 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



FRAGMENT, 

IN wttherspoon's collection of scots songs. 



Tune — "Hughie Graham." 
K gin my love were yon red rose, 

That grows upon the castle wa', 
And I mysel' a drop o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

(( Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light." 

were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew 'd. 



MISS LESLEY BAILLIE. 



Tune—" Liggeram Cosh." 
Blithe ha'e I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 

* The two latter verses only are by Burns. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 331 



LOGAN WATER. 



Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne ha'e o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs, 

The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs : 

Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And ev'ning's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul delightless a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye mak' monie a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie, name to Logan braes ! 



332 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



BONNIE JEAN. 



There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrilie : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'rs, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst, 

He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak' her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie' s heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea % 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper 'd thus his tale o' love : 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 333 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me, 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather-bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him nae : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 



Tune — "Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
"While yon wild flow'rs among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



334 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HAD I A CAVE, &c. 



[An unfortunate circumstance which happened to his friend 
Cunningham, suggested this fine pathetic song to the Poet's 
fancy.] 

Tune—" Rohin Adair." 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ? 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne 1 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne ; 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e ran about the braes, 

And pu't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd, 

Sin' auld lang syne. 



BUBNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 335 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak' a right good-willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, J 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak' a cup o' ldndness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne ; 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 



BY ALLAN STREAM. 



Tune — "Allan Water." 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi ; 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen' d to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — 

dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle mak' it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ! 



336 BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS, 



ADOWN WINDING NITH. 



Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

Awa' wi' your belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare ; 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amused my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis ! 

For she is simplicity's child. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily ! 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 

Awa' wi' your belles and your beauties* 

They never wi' her can compare ; 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



BURNS'S SONGS AND BALLADS. 337 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 



Tune — " Cauld Kail." 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust, 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone, 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never ! 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 



Tune — " Oran Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail ; 
"E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While through thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 
z 



338 BCRNSS SONGS AND BALLADS. 



DAINTY DAYIE. 



Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers : 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet one on the warlock knoive, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There Til spend the day wV you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then through the dews I will repair 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day ivV you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 



Tune — " Fee him, Father." 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us sever ; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, 
I shall see thee never. [Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is breaking. 
Soon my weary een I'll close — never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Never mair to waken. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 339 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 



Tune — " The Collier's Dochter." 
Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee, 
Is but a fairy treasure — 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion — 
They are but types of woman. 

! art thou not ashamed, 

To dote upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



NANCY. 

Tune—" The Quaker's Wife." 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish : 

Though despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love % 
Night without a morning : 

Love's the cloudless summer sun, 
Nature gay adorning, 
z 2 



340 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



FAIR JENNY. 



Tune — " Saw ye my Father?" 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danced to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer 's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly whiter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known ; 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 



Tune— "The Sutor's Dochter." 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee % 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie ; 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 341 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wiltna be my aim. 
Sayna thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANNOCKBURN. 



Tune—" Hey, tuttie, tattie." 

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free. 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



342 BURNS* S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE. 



Tune—" My jo Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 
Though I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, Sir. 
" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy \ " 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so, good b'ye allegiance ! 
" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it J 
" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it mil be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 
"I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 343 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 



Tune—" O'er the Hills," &c. 
How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away : 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away. 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless power ; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray, 

For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 

And bid wild war his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet, 

And as a brother kindly greet : 

Then may heaven, with prosp'rous gales, 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 

To my arms their charge convey, 

My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away : 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 



344 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. 



Tune — " Deil tak' the Wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bovver 

Chants o'er the breathing flower; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky : 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish' d sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart — 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



BUT LATELY SEEN. 



Tune—" The Winter of Life." 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoice the day, 
Through gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In doable pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa' ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 345 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthftf prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ! 



CA' THE YOWES. 

Tune—" Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes." 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca 1 them whare the bumie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Through the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part — 
My bonnie dearie. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee, 
Ye shall be my dearie. 



346' BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME, 



ay my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife did bang me ; 
If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith! she'll soon o'er gang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 
And, fool I was ! I married ; 

But never honest man's intent 
As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sairie comfort still at last, 
When a' thir days are done, man, 

My pains o' hell on earth are past — 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 

ay my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife did bang me ; 
If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith ! she'll soon o'ergang ye. 



TO MARY. 

Time — " Could aught of song." 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The muse should tell, in labour' d strains, 

Mary, how I love thee ! 
They who but feign a wounded heart, 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refined 

The voice of nature prizing. 



BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 347 



HERE IS THE GLEN. 



Tune — " Banks of Cree." 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour — 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call, 
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 

Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall, 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little, faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? and art thou true I 
O welcome, dear, to love and me ! 

And let us all our vows renew 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 



Tune — " The Maid's Complaint." 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I ha'e, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Than if I canna mak' thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee ; 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



348 BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 



LOVELY DA TIES. 



Tune — " Miss Muir." 

how shall I, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation, 

The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whisper inspiration % 
Even they maun dare an effort mair, 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Ere they rehearse, in equal verse, 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning, 
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That mak's us mair than princes ; 
A scepter'd hand, a king's command, 

Is in her darting glances. 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My muse to dream of such a theme, 
Her feeble pow'rs surrender ; 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendour. 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
The deed too daring brave is ; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 349 



SAE FAR AWA'. 



Tune—" Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 

O, sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa' ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart, 

My native land sae far awa'. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this fair sae far awa', 
Gi'e body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa'. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa' : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart. 

While oh ! she is sae far awa'. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but hers, sae far awa' ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than hers, the fair sae far awa'. 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 



Tune— 11 Duncan Gray," 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 
Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange 

Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 
Round and round the seasons go. 
Why then ask of silly man 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



350 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



CHLOE. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 



Tune — " Dainty Davie." 
It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day, 

The youthful, charming Chloe 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely ivas she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see, 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



LASSIE WT THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 



Tune — " Rothiemurchus' Rant." 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie, f 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, ? 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O ? 



BURNSS SONGS AND BALLADS. 351 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Through yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, 0. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 

Lassie ivi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Tune — " Nancy's to the Greenwood gane," &c. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemned to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 
Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer — 
For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had saved me : 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



352 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



O, PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. 



Tune—" The Sow's Tail." 

He — O Philly, happy be that day 

When, roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stow r n away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly,, 

She — Willy, aye I bless the grove 

Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
While thou didst pledge the Powers above, 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

He — As songsters of the early year 

Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

She — As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

He — The milder sun and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

She — The little swallow's wanton wing, 

Though wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

He — The bee that through the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compared wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

She — The woodbine in the dewy weet, 

When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is not sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 353 

He — Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 

And fools may tine, and knaves may win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

She — What's a' the joys that gowd can gi'e ! 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me^ 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME. 



Tune—" Morag." 

wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie eve?' dearer ; 
that's the queen o' woman-kind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking 

But her by thee is slighted ; 
And thou art all delighted ; 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one 

But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 

that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
that's the queen o' woman-kind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



354 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



CONTENTED WI* LITTLE. 



Tune — " Lumps o' Pudding." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gi'e them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought ; 

But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 

My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, 

And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa, 
A night o' guid fellowship southers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the de'il ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or pain, 
My warst word is, "Welcome, and welcome again !" 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. 

Tune—" Roy's Wife." 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 9 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 9 
Well thou knoiv'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 9 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy 1 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ; 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 9 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 9 
Well thou knoiv'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 9 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 355 



MY NANNIE'S AWA\ 



Tune — " There'll never be peace," &c. 

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa\ 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa'. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa'. 

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa'. 



TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 



You're welcome to despots, Dumourier, 
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier ! 

How does Dampierre do, 

Ay, and Bournonville too, 
Why did not they come along with you, Dumourier ? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll have a dance with you, Dumourier- 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

Till freedom's spark is out, 
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier ! 
a a 2 



356 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HERE'S A HEALTH. 



Tune — " The Bonnets o' blue.". 
Here's a health to them that's awa', 

Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa ! 
It's guid to be merry and wise, 

It's guid to be honest and true, 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

And here's to them that's awa' ; 
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 

Although that his band be sma'. 
May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

And here's to them that's awa' ; 
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, 

But they wham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

And here's to them that's awa' ; 
Here's Maitland and Wycombe, and wha does na like 'em, 

We'll build in a hole o' the wa'. 
Here's timmer that's red at the heart, 

Here's fruit that's sound at the core ! 
May he that would turn the buff and blue coat, 

Be turn'd to the back o' the door. 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

And here's to them that's awa' ; 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, 

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth, 

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed, 
And wha would betray old Albion's rights, 

May they never eat of her bread. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 357 



CALEDONIA. 



Tune—" Humours of Glen." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon^ 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace., 

What are they % The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. 



Tune—" Cordwainers' March." 

lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain, 
A slave to Love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mohy a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I ha'e lo'ed best, 
But thou art queen within my breast, 

For ever to remain. 
O lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass, 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 



358 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledged her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew : 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore — 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue ! " 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her favourite resort ; 

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reigned ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand* : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken' d the air, and they plunder'd the land: 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly — 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the North, 

The scourge of the seas and the dread of the shore + ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore J ; 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail' d, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail' d, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell§. 

The Cameleon-savage disturb 'd her repose, 
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 

Provoked beyond bearing at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life |[ : 

* The Romans. f The Saxons. ± The Danes. 

§ The two famous battles in which the Danes or Norwegians 
were defeated. || The Highlanders of the Isles. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 359 

The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed's silver flood ; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo she'll match them, and match them always*. 



O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET. 



Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet % 
Or art thou wakin', I would wit \ 
For love has bound me, hand and fit, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks through the driving sleet ; 
Tak' pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws, 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 



let me in this ae i 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

rise and let me in, jo. 

* This singular figure of poetry refers to the famous proposition 
of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the 
square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the 
two other sides. 



360 BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HER ANSWER. 



tell na me o 5 wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam' again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night j 
And ancefor a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That 's trusted faithless man, jo. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 

I tell you now, $c. 



SAW YE MY PHELY. 

{Quasi dicat Phillis.) 



Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit." 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely % 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. 

had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 361 



IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. 



Tune—" For a' that, and a' that." 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ! 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that ! 

What tho' on namely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men, for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that ; 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that ! 

A king can mak' a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mamma fa that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's comin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



362 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



Tune — '•' The hopeless Lover." 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me pass'd, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast, 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reck'd I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, "hope naemair !" 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 363 



ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 



Tune—" Where'll bonnieAnnlie?" or " Loch-Eroch-Side.' 

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay ! 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray ; 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, noeht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 



Tune — " John Anderson, my jo." 
How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impending ruin, 

A while her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



364 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



CHLORIS. 

Tune — " De'il tak' the wars." 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures % 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel through every vein Love's raptures roll. 



THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 



Tune—" This is no my ain House." 

this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair though the lassie he ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie* 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witchin' grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 365 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the e'e. 

It may escape the courtly sparks; 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair though the lassie be ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 



Tune — " Aye wakin', O." 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 

Every hope is fled, 
Every fear is terror ; 

Slumber even I dread, 
Every dream is horror. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 



366 BURNS* S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



TEE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 



Tune — " Push about the Jorum." 

April, 1795. 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursel's united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it, 
By heaven ! the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, "God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 367 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 



Tune — " The Lothian Lassie." 
Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang glen, 

And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men — 

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me, 

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me ! 

He spak' o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 

And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
I said he might die when he liked, for Jean — 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or cared, 

But thought I might ha'e waur offers, waur offers, 
But thought I might ha'e waur offers. 

But what wad ye think % in a fortnight or less, 
The de'il tak' his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess — 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper' d as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie ! 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recover' d her hearing 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet, 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin', a swearin', 

But heavens ! how he fell a swearin'. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



368 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE TITHER MORN. 



To a Highland Air. 

The titlier morn, 

When I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow 

I'd see my jo, 
Beside me, ere the gloaming, 

But he sae trig, 

Lap o'er the rig, 
And dawtingly did cheer me, 

When I, what reck ! 

Did least expec' 
To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me ; 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' fainness grat, 
While in his grips he press'd me. 

De'il tak' the war ! 

I late and air 
Ha'e wish'd since Jock departed ; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad, 
As short-syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en, 

Wi' dancing keen, 
When a' were blythe and merry, 

I cared na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In absence o' my dearie. 

But, praise be blest ! 

My mind's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se ay be there, 
And be as canty's, ony. 



BURNs's SONGS AND BALLADS. 369 



O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. 



Tune — " I wish my love was in a mire." 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow, 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world nor wish nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

AN UNFINISHED SKETCH. 



There was a bonnie lass., 

And a bonnie, bonnie lass, 
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ; 

Till war's loud alarms 

Tore her laddie frae her arms, 
Wi' mony a sigh and tear. 

Over sea, over shore, 
Where the cannons loudly roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear : 
And nocht could him quell, 
Or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed so dear. 



370 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 



[This is altered from an old favourite song of the same 
name.] 

Time — " Coming through the rye." 

Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye, 
She clraiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body — 

Coming through the rye; 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need a body cry ? 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen, 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need a' body ken ? 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 



ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 



Tune — " Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney." 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 371 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 

For then I am lock'd in thy arms — Jessy ! 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But, why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ? — Jessy ! 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I We dear, 

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy! 



HEY FOR A LASS WV A TOCHER. 



Tune— "Balinamona Ora." 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O gi'e me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O gi'e me the lass wi' the weel stocldt farms. 

Then hep for a lass wi* a tocher, 
Then hep for a lass wi* a tocher ; 
Then hep for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice pellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonny green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonny white yowes. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye ha'e them — the mair they're carest. 

Then hep for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hep for a lass wi' a tocher 
Then hep for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 
b b 2 



372 BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 



'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN. 



Tune—" Laddie, lie near me." 

'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin ; 
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ! 
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest, 
And thou art the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



TO CHARLOTTE HAMILTON. 



[The Poet's last Song J] 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou wert wont to do f 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not loye exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ? " 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, 0, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 

No love but thine my heart shall know. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou wert wont to do ? 



BURNS S SONGS AND BALLADS. 373 



A FRAGMENT. 



Tune—" John Anderson my jo." 

One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Ayr ran by before me," 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me, 

That echoed through the braes. 



FRAGMENT. 

CHLORIS. 

Tune—' 1 The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ! 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ; 

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel ! 
Wake thy lover from his dream % 



END OF THE SONGS AND BALLADS. 



GLOSSARY. 



[In the present edition the original Glossary has been carefully exa- 
mined, and much augmented. In all the Poems and Songs, where 
the Scotch words vary, in orthography or pronunciation, from English 
ones merely by literal elision (such as an' for and, ha'e for have, singin' 
for singing, &c), apostrophes have been uniformly inserted, to in- 
dicate the place of dropped letters ; by which means the English 
admirers of our Poet will the more readily understand his verses. 
Such words, therefore, have been retrenched altogether from the 
glossary ; and those purely Scotch only (or, being English, having 
Scotch meanings) will be found below. — Ed.] 



* The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the 
English diphthong oo is commonly spelt ou. The French u, a sound 
which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo or ui. The 
a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or 
followed by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like 
the broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ae, always, and 
ea, very often, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diph- 
thong ey sounds like the Latin ei." — Burns. 



Aback, away, aloof 
Abeigh, at a shy distance 
Aboon, above, up, over 
Abread, abroad, in sight 
Abreed, in breadth 
Adle, caudle ; a cordial 
Ae, one 
Aff, off; aff-loof, off-hand, 

unpremeditated 
Afore, before 
Aft, oft 
Aften, often 
Agley, awry, wrong 
-Aiblins, perhaps 
Aik, an oak 
Ailsa Craig (crag), a high 

insulated rock in the Frith 

of Clyde 
Ain, own 

Air, ear', early, soon 
Airles, airl-penny, earnest- 
money ; lure, bait 
Aim, iron 

Airt, quarter of the hea- 
vens; to direct 
Aith, an oath 
Aits, oats 
Aiver, an old horse 
AizJe, a hot cinder 
Ajee, ajar ; on one side 



^lake, alas! 

Alane, alone 

Akwart, awkward 

Amaist, 'maist, almost 

Alice, once 

Ane, one, an 

Anent, concerning; fore- 

anent, over-against 
Anither, another 
Ase, ashes 
Aspar, astride 
Asteer, abroad, stirring 
Atween, between 
Aught, possession ; as, in a' 

my aught, in all my stock ; 

whase aught thae chiels ? 

of what kind (or family) 

are these men ? 
Auld, old ; auld warl', an- 
tediluvian, out-of-date; 

auld-used, experienced 
Auldfarran,or auldfarraut, 

quaint, cunning, prudent; 

precocious in mind 
Aumis, alms ; aumis-dish, 

charity plate or box 
Ava, at all 
Awn, the beard of barley, 

oats, &c. ; awnie, bearded 
Ayont, beyond 



Ba ? , ball 

Backets, ash-boards 

Backlins comin', coming 
back, returning 

Bad, did bid 

Baide, endured, did stay 

Baggie, the belly 

Bailie, borough magistrate, 
alderman 

Bairn, a child 

Bairn-time, a family of 
children; a brood 

Baith, both 

Ban, to swear, to curse 

Band, bond; bands, bondage 
Bane, bone ; bany, bony 
Bang, to beat, to strive 
Bannocks, fiat, soft cakes 
Bardie, diminutive of bard ; 

Sir Bardie, our poet 
Barerit, barefooted 
Barm, yeast 
Barmie, yeasty 
Batch, a crew, a gang 
Batts, botts 
Baudrons, a cat 
Bauld, bold 
Bawbee, a halfpenny 
Baws'nt, having a white 
stripe down the face 



376 



GLOSSARY. 



Bawk, a ridge, a bank 
Bawty, general name of a 

dog 
Be, to let be, to give over 
Bear, big, barley- 
Beast, full-grown animal 
Beastie, dimin. of beast 
Beet, to add fuel to fire 
Beld, bald 
Bell, flower; in tbe bell, in 

blossom 
Belyve, by and by 
Ben, in ; into the room ; 
"a routhie but a routhie 
ben," comfortable house ; 
benmost, inmost 
Bethankit,grace after meat 
Beuk, a book 
Bicker, a kind of wooden 

dish ; a sho.rt race 
Biel, or bield, shelter 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful, 

comfortable 
Big, bigg, to build 
Biggin',' building, a house 
Biffgit, built 
Bill, a bull 
Billie, a brother; a young 

fellow, a companion 
Bing, a heap of grain, pota- 
toes, &c. 
Birk, birch-tree 
Birkie, lively young fellow 
Birring,noise of partridges, 

&c. when they spring 
Bit, crisis, nick of time 
Bizz, a bustle; to buzz 
Bizzie, busy 
Blae, blue; livid 
Biastie, a shrivelled dwarf, 

a term of contempt 
Blastit, blasted; degenerate 
Biate, bashful, sheepish 
Blather or blether, bladder 
Blaud, a good piece of any - 

thing ; to slap 
Blaw, to blow ; to boast 
Bleerit, bleared 
Bleezing, blazing 
Blellum", idle talking fellow 
Blether, talk idly, nonsense 
Bleth'rin, talking idly 
Blink, a gleam; a little 
while ; a smiling look ; to 
look kindly ; shine by fits 
Blinker, a term of contempt 
Blinkin', smirking 
Bloom, blossom ; blooming, 

blossoming 
Blue-gown, authorised beg- 
gar, such as Edie Ochiltree 
Bluid, blude, blood 
Bluntie, one abashed 
Blype, a shred, a strip 
Bock, to vomit, to gush in- 
termittently 
Bocked, gushed, vomited 
Bodle, a small copper coin 
Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins 
Bole, recess or hole in a 

wall 
Bonnie, or bonny, hand- 
some, beautiful 
Boord, a board 
Boortree, the shrub elder 
Boost, behoved, must needs 
Bore, hole in a wall, crevice 



Botch, an angry tumour 
Bousing drinking 
Bow-kail, cabbage 
Bowt, bended, crooked 
Brackens, fern 
Krae, a hillock, a declivity 
Braid, broad; braid Scotch 

or Scots, plain language 
Braik, a kind of harrow 
Brainge, to run rashly 
Braindg't, reeled forward 
Brak', broke; made insol- 
vent 
Branks, a kind of wooden 

curb for horses 
Brash, a sudden illness 
Brats, clothes ; aprons, &c. 
Brattle, a short race, hurry 
Braw, fine, handsome 
Brawly, or brawlie, very 

well, finely, heartily 
Braxie, a morbid sheep 
Breastie, dimin. of breast 
Breastit, did spring forth 
Brechan, breckans, fern 
Bree, liquor; barley-bree, 

ale, whiskey 
Breef, an irresistible spell 
Breeks, breeches 
Brent, smooth ; brent new, 
quite new ; brent brow, 
high smooth forehead 
Brie, brow ; e'e-brie, eye- 
brow 
Brig, abridge 
Brisket, the breast 
Brither, a brother 
Brock, a badger 
Brogue, a trick 
Broo, broth, liquid, water 
Broose, a race at weddings 
Brose, stirabout ; water- 

brose, oatmeal gruel 
Browst,brewing; browster- 

wife, tavern landlady 
Brugh, burgh, a borough 
Bruilzie, a broil 
Brunstane, brimstone 
Brunt, did burn, burnt 
Brust, to burst, burst 
Buckie, spirited lad 
Buckskins, Yankies 
Buff, a blow; buff our beef, 

beat one soundly 
Bught, a pen 

Bughtin'-time, time of col- 
lecting ewes to be milked 
Buirdly, stout-made 
Bum, hum as a bee; exult 
Bum-clock, a humming 

beetle 
Bumming, humming as of 

bees 
Buminle, to blunder 
Bummler, a blunderer 
Bunker, a window-seat 
Burdies, dimin. of birds 
Bure, did bear; bure the 

gree, bore the bell 
Burn, water; a brook, a 

rivulet 
Burnie, diminutive of burn 
Busk, to put on dress; 

buskit, dressed 
Buskie, bushy 
Buss, a bush 
But, without 



But an' ben, kitchen and 

parlour ; two rooms 
Butching, killing 
By himself, crazy, lunatic 
Bye attour, besides that 
Byke, a bee-hive, a swarm 
Byre, a cow-house 

CA',to call, to name, to drive 
Ca't, or ca'd,called,driven; 

calved 
Cadger, costermonger 
Cadie (cadet), younger son, 

lackland; menial 
Caff, chaff 

Caird, a tinker; gipsy man 
Cairn, a heap of stones serv- 
ing as a rude kind of mon- 
ument ; also a pinnacle 
Cali-ward, small enclosure 

for calves 
Callan, callant, a boy 
Caller, fresh, sound 
Callet, camp trull 
Canny, or cannie, gentle p 

careful; softly; quietly 
Cant, chant, song 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful 
Cantrip, a charm, a spell 
Cap-stane, top-stone 
Care na by, it irks me not 
Careerin', moving cheerily 
Carkin', fretting, gnawing, 

corroding 
Carl-hemp, male stalk 
Carle, carlie, an old man 
Carline, a stout old woman 
Cartes, cards 
Cast out, fall out, quarrel 
Caudron, a cauldron 
Cauk and keel, chalk and 

red or black lead-pencil 
Cauid, cauF, cold 
Caup, a wooden drinking 

vessel ; a cup 
Caution, legal bail; be cau- 
tion, become responsible 
Cavie, a coop ; chicken- 

cavie, hen-roost 
Chanter, part of a bagpipe 
Chap, a man, fellow 
Chapman billies, pedlars, 
petty traders (not buyers) 
Chaup, a stroke, a blow 
Cheekit, cheeked 
Cheep, chirping, to chirp 
Chiel,chield,ayoungfellow 
Chimla or chimlie, chimney 
a fire-grate, a fire-place 
Chimla-lug,the fire-side 
Chittering, chattering ; 

shivering, trembling 
Chow, to chew; cheek-for- 

chow, side by side 
Chuffie, fat-faced 
Clachan, a country town, or 
village having a church 
Claise, or claes, clothes 
Claith, cloth 
Claithing, clothing 
Claivers, clavers, nonsense 
Clamb, did climb 
Clap, clapper of a mill 
Clarkit, kept accounts 
Clarty or clatty,dirty,filthy 
Clash, an idle tale, story o* 
the day ; to scandalize 



GLOSSARY. 



377 



Clatter, idle stories 

Claught, snatched at 

Claut,a handful, a quantity; 
also to clean, to scrape 

Clauted, scraped 

Cleed, to clothe 

Cleekit, hooked on; having 
caught 

Clinkin', jerking,squatting 

Clinkumbell, hell-ringer; 
clinkum, beadle 

Clips, wool-shears 

Clishmaclaver, idle talk 

Clock, to cluck, to hatch; 
a beetle 

Clockin', clucking, hatch- 
ing; clockin-time, brood- 
ing time 

Cloot, hoof 

Clootie, Cloots, the devil 

Clour, a bump or swelling 
after a blow 

Clud, a cloud 

Coble, a fishing-boat 

Cockernony, lock of hair 
tied on a girl's head; a cap 

Cod, a pillow 

Coft, bought 

Cog, a wooden dish ; sieve 

Coggie, diminutive of cog 

Coila, from Kyle, a district 
of Ayrshire 

Collie, a name for country 
curs 

Collieshangie, a dog-fight ; 
fierce quarrel 

Commaun, command 

Convener, principal crafts- 
man in a Scotch guild 

Cood, the cud 

Coof, a blockhead, dullard 

Cooser, a stallion 

Coost, did cast, cast off 

Coot, the ancle or foot 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen 
dish; fowls whose legs 
are clad with feathers 
are also said to be cootie 

Corbies, ravens 

Corn, oats ; corn't, oat-fed 

Cotter, inhabitant of a cot 

Couthie, kind, loving ; 
kindly, lovingly 

Cove, a cave 

Cow, to diminish 

Cowe, to terrify, to keep 
under, to lop; a fright; 
a branch of furze, &c. 

Cowp, to barter, to tumble 
over; cowp the cran, com- 
pletely overturn ; a gang 

Cowpit, tumbled 

Cowte, a colt 

Cozie, snug; cozilie, snugly 

Crabbit, fretful 

Crack, conversation, to 
converse 

Craft, or croft, a grass field 

Craig, crag ; throat 

Craigie, craggy 
Craiks, cries or calls inces- 
santly ; landrails 
Crambo-clink, or crambo- 
jingle, rhymes, doggrel 
Crank, the noi.-e of an un- 
greased wheel; bad verse 
Crankous, fretful, captious 



Cranreuch, hoar-frost 

Crap, a crop ; to crop 

Craw, crow of a cock; a 
crow, a rook 

Crazed, worn out 

Creel, a large basket ; my 
head (or senses) is in a 
creel — I am stupified, or 
under a delusion 

Creepie-chair, stool of re- 
pentance 

Creeshie, greasy 

Croon, a continued moan 

Crooning, humming 

Crouchie, crooked-backed 

Crouse, cheerful, courage- 
ous, boastful 

Crowdie, a composition of 
oatmeal and boiled water, 
sometimes from the broth 
of beef, mutton, &c. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast- 
time 

Crovvlin', crawling 

Crump, crisp 

Crummock, a cow with 
crooked horns 

Cuif, coof, a blockhead 

Cummock, a short staff 

Curch, a woman's cap 

Curchie, a curtsey 

Curler, a player at a game 
on the ice called curling 

Curmurring, murmuring, 
a slight rumbling noise 

Curpin, the crupper 

Curple, the rear 

Cushat, the stock-dove, or 
wood-pigeon 

Cutty,short; a spoon; cutty 
stool, stool of repentance 

D affix, merriment, foolery 
Daez't, stupified, deprived 

of vigour or sensibility 
Daft, merry, giddy, foolish 
Daimen,rare,nowand then; 
daimen-icker, an ear of 
corn now and then 
Dainty, pleasant, good- 
humoured, agreeable 
Damies, dames, ladies 
Dam (to tine), pass urine 
Dandered, wandered 
Dang, knocked, vanquished 
Danton, to daunt 
Darklins, without light 
Darg, a day's labour 
Daud, to thrash; to abuse 
Daunton, to frighten ; 

dauntonly, fearlessly 
Daur, to dare 
Daut, to caress 
Davoc, dimin. of David 
Dawd,or daud, a huge piece 
Daw', dawn ; dawin, dawn- 
ing 
Daw tit, or dautit, caressed 
Dead (be my), be my death 
Dearthfu', dear, expensive 
Deave, to deafen 
Deil's picture-beuks, play- 
ing cards 
De'il-ma-care ! no matter ! 
Deleerit, delirious 
Den, a dingle 
Descrive, to describe 



Deuks, ducks 
Devel, stunning blow 
Din, dun, dark, swarthy 
Dight, to wipe; to clean 

corn from chaff 
Dine, sundown ; sunset 
Ding, to outdo, exceed ; to 

worst, to push 
Dink, ladylike 
Dinna, do not 
Dirl, a stroke or pain ; 

tremulous concussion 
Dizzen, or diz'n, a dozen 
Dochter, daughter 
Doited, stupid ; anile 
Dolt, stupified, crazed 
Donsie,unlucky; affectedly 

neat ; of vicious temper 
Dool, sorrow, mourning 
Doos, doves, pigeons 
Dorty, saucy, nice 
Douce, or douse, sober, 

wise, prudent 
Dought, was or were able 
Doup, backside 
Doure, stout, durable; sul- 
len, stubborn 
Dow, am or are able, can 
Downa, unable; downa-doj 

impotent 
Dowff, wanting force 
Dowie, pensive, melan- 
choly ; worn with grief, 
fatigue, &c; half asleep 
Doytit, stupid ; doytin, 

loitering, stumbling 
Draiglet, bedraggled 
Drap, a drop ; draps, lead 
drops, small shot; to drop 
Draunting, drawling 
Dree, bear, suffer 
Dreep, to ooze, to drip 
Dribble, drizzling ; slaver 
Driddle, awkward motion 
Driegh, or dreigh, slow, 
plodding; of steep ascent 
Drift,a drove; heap of snow 
Droddum, the breech 
Drone, part of a bagpipe 
Droop-rumpl't, thin flank'd 
Droukit, wet 
Drouth, thirst, drought 
Drucken, drunk, drunken 
Drumly, muddy ; turbid 
Drummock, meal and wa- 
ter mixed raw 
Drunt, pet, sour humour 
Dub, a small pond; a puddle 
Duds, rags, clothes 
Duddie, ragged 
Dung, overcome ; pushed 
Dunt, a blow ; dunted, 
beaten, boxed ; throbbed, 
as the pulse 
Dnsh, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dyke, inclosure wall 
Dy vor, bankrupt; infamous 
person 

Earn, an eagle 

K'e, eye; een (eyne), eyes 

Eebree, or eebrie, eyebrow 

E'en, even 

Eerie, frighted, dreading 

spirits; melancholy 
Eild, old age 
Elbuck, the elbow 



378 



GLOSSARY. 



Elder, kind of churchwar- 
den and parish overseer 
in the Kirk of Scotland ; 
of whom some are ap- 
pointed (called " ruling 
elders") to deliberate 
and vote in church judi- 
catories 
Eldritch, elvish; ghastly 
Enbrugh, Edinburgh 
Enerv'd, enervated 
Eneuch, or eneugh, enough 
Ettle, to try, attempt 
Evendown, downright 
Evermair, evermore 
Eydent, diligent 

Fa, fate; attempt 

Fa', fall ; lot ; to fall ; befal; 

fa 'n, fallen 
Fa's, does fall ; water-falls 
Faddom't, fathomed 
Fae, a foe 
Faem, foam 

Faiket,forgiven,or excused 
Fain,glad; fainness,rapture 
Fair-strae, chance-medley 
Fallow, fellow 
Fand, found, did find 
Far], a cake of bread 
Fash, trouble, care, to 

trouble, care for 
Fasht, troubled 
Fatt -rills, plaits, overlaps 
Fastern-e'en,eve of Shrove 

Tuesday 
Faught, fight 
Fauld, a fold, to fold 
Faulding, folding 
Faut, fault ; fautor, culprit 
Fawsont, decent, seemly 
Feal, loyal, steadfast 
Fear't, affrighted 
Feat, neat, spruce, clever 
Fecht, to fight 
Fech't, strained 
Feck, the most ; many 
Fecket, waistcoat 
Feckfu', large, stout 
Feckless, puny, weak 
Feckly, mostly 
Fee, to hire ; penny-fee, 

wages 
Feg, fig ; fegs ! faith 
Feide/feud, enmity 
Feirie, bustling, active 
Fell, keen, biting; the 
flesh immediately under 
the skin ; a level "field on 
the side or top of a hill 
Felly, relentless 
Fend, to keep off ; to make 
shift ; to live comfortably 
Ferlie, or ferly, to wonder; 
a wonder; a term of con- 
tempt 
Fetch, to pull by fits ; 
fetch't, pulled intermit- 
tently 
Fey, strange; doomed 
Fidge, to fidget; fidgiu 
fain, very desirous of ; 
fidge fu' fain, to be joyous 
Fiel, soft, smooth 
Fient, fiend, deuce; a 

petty oath 
Fier, sound, healthy 



Fier, a brother, a friend 
Fissle, to make a rustling- 
noise, to fidget ; a bustle 
Fit, a foot 

Fittie-lan, the nearer horse 
of the hindmost pair in 
the plough 
Fizz, make a hissing noise 
Flae.a flea 
Flannen, flannel 
Fleech, to supplicate in a 

flattering manner 
Fleechin, fawning 
Fleesh, a fleece 
Fleg, a random blow 
Flether, to decoy by fair 

words 
Flewit, a smart blow 
Fley, to scare, to frighten 
Flichter,to flutter as young 
nestlings, when "their 
dam approaches 
Flie, flee, fly : pr. as flea 
Flinders, shreds, splinters 
Flingin'-tree, a piece of 
timber hung by way of 
partition between two 
horses in a stable ; a flail 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke 
Fliskit, fretted 
Flit, to remove household 
goods ; change residence 
Flitter, to flutter 
Flunkie,aservant in livery 
Flyte, scold 

Fog, dry moss ; foggage, 
stray vegetable materials 
used by birds, &c in con- 
structing nests. 
Foord, a ford 
Forbears, forefathers 
Forbye, besides 
Forfairn, worn out, jaded 
Forfoughten, fatigued 
Forgather, to meet with 
Forgi'e, to forgive 
Forjesket, fatigued 
Forrit, forward 
Fother, fodder 
Fou, tipsy, drunk 
Foughten, irked, harassed 
Foul-thief, the arch-fiend 
Foumart, weasel 
Fouth, plenty, enough, or 

more than enough 
Fow, a bushel, &c; also 

a pitch-fork 
Frae, from 
Freath, froth 
Fu', full 

Fud, scut of the hare, &c. 
Fuff,to blow intermittently 
Fuff 't, did blow 
Fur, a furrow 
Fur-ahin, plough horse 
Furder, further ; succeed 
Furm, a form, bench 
Fusionless, or fizzenless, 
tasteless; feeble; useless 
Fyke, fidget, trifling cares ; 
to piddle, to be in a fuss 
about trifles 
Fyie, to soil, to dirty 
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied 

Gab, the mouth ; to speak 
boldly, or pertly I 



Gaberlunzie, a wallet ; ga- 
berlunzie-man, one who 
bears a wallet, a beggar 

Gadsman, ploughboy; the 
boy that drives the horses 
in the plough 

Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; 
gane, gone ; gaun, going 

Gaet, or gate, way, manner, 
road 

Gairs, showy ornaments ; 
gown with gairs, dress 
of brocade 

Gang, to go, to walk 

Gangrel, tramper 

Gar, to make, to force to 

Gar 't, forced to 

Garten, a garter 

Gash, wise, sagacious, talk- 
ative 

Gashin', conversing 

Gat, got 

Gaunt, a yawn; gaunted, 
yawned 

Gawcey,gaucy,jolly,plump 

Gawky, half-witted, fool- 
ish, romping 

Gear, riches of any kind 

Geek, to toss the head in 
wantonness or scorn 

Ged, a pike 

Gentles, great folks 

Genty, slim, elegant 

Geordie, a guinea 

Get, a child ; brat 

Ghaist, a ghost 

Gi'e, to give; gied, gave ; 



Giglets, mocking children 
Gillie, dimin. of gill 
Gilpey, a half-grown, half- 

informed r boy or girl ; a 

romping lad, a hoyden 
Gimmer, a ewe from one 

to two years old 
Gin, if; before ; against 
Gipsy, a y^oung girl 
Girdin', girthing a horse 
Girdle, griddle; also girder, 

or rafter 
Girning, grinning ; crying 

with contortions of visage 
Girr, a hoop 
Gizz, a periwig 
Glaiket,inattentive,foolish 
Glaizie, glittering, smooth, 

like glass 
Glamour, witchery ; also 

an enchanted atmosphere 

in which objects are seen 

in a false light 
Glaum'd. grasped, snatched 
Gled, a hawk 
Gleg, sharp, ready 
GJeib, glieb, glebe; portion 

of land; ground attached 

to a manse or parsonage 
Gley, a squint, to squint ; 

a-gley, off at a side, awry 
Glib-gabbet, that speaks 

smoothly and readily 
Glint, to peep; pass quickly 
Gloamin, the twilight; 

gloamin-shot, interval of 

evening recreation 
Glowr, to stare, to look 



GLOSSARY. 



379 



Goavan, walking aimlessly 

Gor-cocks, red game 

Gowan, the flower of the 
wild daisy, dandelion, 
hawkweed, &c. 

Gowany, flowery ; gowany 
glens, daisied vales 

Gowd, gold 

Gowdie (heels-o'er), topsy- 
turvy ; presto ! 

Gowdspink, goldfinch 

Gowff, the game of golf ; 
to strike as the hat does 
the ball at golf ; a fool 

Gowff'd, struck 

Gowk, the cuckoo ; a term 
of contempt 

Gowl, to howl 

Grane, or grain, a groan, 
to groan ; grain'd ; grin- 
ned; groaned 

Graip, a pronged instru- 
ment for cleaning stables 

Graith, accoutrements,fur- 
niture, dress, horse gear 

Grape, to grope; grapit, 
or graipit, groped 

Grat, wept, shed tears 

Great, intimate, familiar 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the 
gree, to be the victor 

Gree't, agreed 

Greet, to shed tears 

Greetin', crying, weeping 

Grewsome, grusome, loath- 
some, grim 

Grippet, catched, seized 

Groat, to get the whistle 
of one's groat, to play a 
losing game 

Grozet, groset, gooseberry 

Grumph, a grunt; to grunt 

Grumphie, a sow 

Grun', ground 

Grunstane, a grindstone 

Gruntle, the phiz, snout; 
grunting noise 

Grunzie, mouth like a pig's 

Grushie, thick, of thriving 
growth 

Gude, the Supreme Being 

Guid, gude, good 

Guidman and Guidwife, 
the master and mistress 
of a house ; young guid- 
man, man newly married 

Gully, or gullie, a large 
pocket-knife 

Gulravage, joyous mischief 

Guidfather, guidrnother, 
father-in-law, and mo- 
ther-in-law 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

Gutcher, grandfather 

Ha', hall 

Hae, here ! take this 

Haen, had, the participle of 

ha'e, to have 
Haet, fient haet, a petty 

oath of negation ; DO thing 
Haffet, the temple, the side 

of the head 
Hafflins, nearly half.partly, 

almost; not "fully grown 
Hain, to spare, to save 



Hag, hagg, a scar, or gulf 
in mosses and moors 

Haggis, a kind of pudding 
boiled in the stomach of 
a cow or sheep 

Hairst, harvest 

Haith! a petty oath 

Haivers, havers, nonsense 

Ha', haP, or hald, an abid- 
ing place; ha' -bible, fa- 
mily bible 

Hale,or baill, entire, whole; 
tight ; healthy 

Haly, holy 

Hallan, a particular parti- 
tion-wall in a cottage, or, 
more properly, a seat of 
turf at the outside 

Hallowe'en, Allhallows- 
eve, the 31st of October 

Hame, home 

Hamely, homely, affable 

Hammered, blattered 

Han', or haun',hand; han'- 
breed, hand's-breadth ; 
fu' -han't, full-handed 

Hanks, skeins of thread,&c. 

Hansel ',luck-money, a pre- 
sent; hansel'-throne, one 
newly arrived at 

Handsome, well-shaped in 
body — not pretty in face 

Hap, an outer garment, 
mantle, plaid, &c ; to 
wrap, to cover 

Happer, a hopper 

Happing, hopping 

Hap-step-an'-loup,hop skip 
and leap 

Harkit, hearkened 

Ham, very coarse linen, 
huckaback 

Hash, a fellow that neither 
knows how to dress nor 
act with propriety 

Hastit, hastened 

Haud, to hold 

Hauf, half; hauf-lang, 
stunted 

Haughs, low lying rich 
lands ; valleys 

Haurl, or har], to drag, to 
strip, to peel 

Haurlin, dragging ; peeling 

Haverel, a half-witted per- 
son ; half-witted 

Havins, acquirements; de- 
corous manners ; good 
sense 

Hawkie, familiar name for 
a cow ; properly one with 
a white face 

Healsome, or hailsome, 
wholesome, healthful 

Heapit, heaped 

Hearse, hoarse 

Heather, heath 

Hech ! oh ! strange ! 

Hecht, promised, to foretell 
something that is to he 
got or given; foretold; 
thing foretold ; offered 

Heckle, flax-dresser'scomb 

Heeze, to elevate 

Herd, to tend nocks, one 
who tends flocks of sheep 
or droves of cattle 



Heft, haft, handle 
Herry, to plunder; proper- 
ly to plunder birds' nests 
Herryment, plundering; 

devastation 
Het, hot 

Heugh, a crag, or preci- 
pice ; coal-pit ; furnace 
Hie, high 

Hilch, a hobble ; to halt 
Highland gill, half-a-pint 
Hiltie-skiltie, in rapid stic- 

cession 
Hind, farmer's labourer 
Hiney, honey 
Hing, to hang 
Hirple, to walk crazily or 

lamely, to creep 
Histie, dry, chapt, barren 
Hitcht (a loop), cast a knot 
Hizzie, or hizzy, hussy; a 

young girl 
Hoast, a cough ; hoastin', 

coughing 
Hoddin, jolting, motion ; 
humble ; hoddin-gray, 
coarse woollen stuff 
Hoggie, two year old sheep 
Hog-shouther(to), selfishly 
justling with the should- 
er ; to justle recklessly 
Hool, outer skin or case, 
husk or shell ; heart's- 
hool, pericardium 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 
Hoolie ! take time 
Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard 
Hoordit, hoarded 
Horn,a spoon made of horn 
Hornie, the devil 
Hotch, to shake the sides 

with joy or laughter 
Houghmagandie, trivial 

name of fornication 
Houp, hope 

Housie, dimin. of house 
Hove, to heave, to swell 
Howdie, a midwife 
Howe, hollow adj., a hollow 
Howe-back, sunken back 
Hovvff, a house of resort 
Howk, to dig ; howkit, dug 
Howlet, an owl 
Hoy, to urge ; hoy't, urged 
Hoyse, a pull upwards 
Hoyte, to amble crazily 
Hughoc, dimin. of Hugh 
Hums and hankers,fumbles 
Hunkers, the hams, the 

hinder part of the thigh 
Hurcheon, a hedgehog 
Hurdies, the loins; the 

crupper 
Hushion, acushion; also a 
footless stockings 

I cker, an ear of corn 
Ier-oe, a great-grandchild 
Ilk, or ilka, each, every 
III, unkind 

Ill-willie, ill-natured, ma- 
licious, niggardly 
Inline, genius, ingenuity 
Ingle, fire, fire-place ; ingle 

cheek, chimney-corner 
Ise, I shall or will 
Ither, other, one ano 



380 



GLOSSARY. 



J ad, or jaud, jade ; also a 

giddy young girl 
Jag, a puncture ; to prick 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle 
Jaup, a splash, a jerk of 

water; jumliejaups, dis- 
turbed fluids 
Jaw, coarse raillery ; to 

pour out as water 
Jee, ajee, ajar; wrong bias 
Jillet, a jilt; a giddy girl 
Jimp, to jump; slender, 

handsome ; scanty 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a 

corner, a sudden turning 
Jinker, that turns quickly; 

a sprightly girl ; a wag 
Jirk, jirt, a jerk 
JocJeleg, a clasp-knife 
Jo, joe (joy), a lover 
Jcuk, to stoop, to bow the 

head; to conceal 
Jow, to jow, the swinging 

motion and pealing sound 

of a large bell 
Jundie, to drive against 

Kae, a daw 

Kail, kale, cole wort; broth 

Kail-runt, the stem of cole- 
wort 

Kain, kane, fowls, &c. paid 
as rent by a farmer 

Kebars, rafters 

Kebbuck, a cheese 

Keckle, cackle ; laugh 

Keek,apeep; to peep; to spy 

Kelpies, mischievous spi- 
rits, said to haunt fords 
and ferries at night 

Ken,toknow; ken't,known 

Kennin, a small matter 

Kenspeckle, easily known 

Ket, fleece 

Killy, dim. of Kilmarnock 

Kilt, to truss up the clothes 

Kimmer, cummer, a girl, 
a gossip ; common woman 

Kin, kindred ; kin', kind 

King's-hood, a certain part 
of the entrails of the ox 

Kintra, kintrie, country 

Kintra-cooser, a stallion 

Kirk, church, chapel 

Kirn, the harvest supper ; 
a churn 

Kirsen, to christen 

Kist, a chest 

Kitchen, seasoning, sa- 
voury accompaniment 

Kith, kindred 

Kittle, to tickle, ticklish; 
slippery, coquettish 

Kitlen, a young cat 

Knaggy, knotty, showing 
the bones 

Knappin'-hammer, a ham- 
mer for breaking stones 

Knowe, a round hillock 

Knurl, dwarf 

Knurled, gnarled, knotty 

Kuittle, to cuddle 

Kurtchie, a curtsey 

Kye, cows ; buckskin-kye, 
buffaloes 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 

Kyte, the belly 



Kythe,to discover, to show 
one's self 

Labour, thrash, beat ; try 

Lade, a load 

Laddie, lad, boy 

Lads, lovers 

Laggen, the angle between 
the side and bottom of a 
wooden dish 

Laigh, low 

Lair (last), burial-place 

Laird, landlord ; chieftain, 
lord of the manor 

Lairing, sink in snow, &c. 

Laith, loath 

Laithfu', bashful, reserved 

Lallans, Lowlands ; Scot- 
tish dialect 

Lambie, dimin. of lamb 

Lampit, limpet, a kind of 
shell -fish 

Lan', land, estate; lan'- 
afore, foremost plough- 
horse ; lan'-ahin', the 
hindmost one 

Lane, lone ; my lane, thy 
lane, myself, &c. alone 

Lanely, lonely 

Lang, long, to weary 

Lap, did leap 

Lave, the rest, remainder 

Laverock, the lark; lave- 
rock-height, high as the 
clouds 

Law, a hill 

Lavvin', reckoning 

Lawlan', lowland 

Lay, or ley, lea; pasture 
ground, unploughed 

Leal, loyal, true 

Lea rig, grassy ridge 

Lear, or lair, learning 

Leddy, lady 

Lee, a lie 

Lee-lang, live-long 

Leesome, pleasant 

Leeze-me, a phrase of en- 
dearment, I am happy or 
proud of thee 

Leister, 3 pronged fish-dart 

Leugh, did laugh 

Leuk, a look ; to look 

Libbet, gelded 

Lick, a blow ; licket, lick- 
ed ; beaten 

Liain, lying 

Lift, sky, firmament 

Lightly, to undervalue ; 
sneeringly 

Lilt, ballad, a tune ; to sing 

Limmer, a kept-mistress, a 
strumpet 

Link, to trip along ; fall to 

Linn, a waterfall, precipice 

Lint, flax ; lint i' the bell, 
flax in flower 

Lintwhite, linnet; flaxen 

Lippened, trusted to 

Loan, or loaning, the place 
of milking; country lane 

Loch, lake ; inlet of the sea 

Loot, the palm of the hand 

Loot, did let ; let fly 

Looves, plural of loot" 

Loon, a fellow, a ragamuf- 
fin; woman of easy virtue 



Loup, jump, leap 

Lowe, a flame ; lowan, 
blazing 

Lowrie, Lawrence 

Lowse, to loose 

Lucky, Mother such a one 

Lug, the ear, a handle 

Lugget, having a handle 

Luggie,small hooped wood- 
en dish with a handle 

Lum, the chimney 

Lunardi, a kind of high- 
crowned lady's bonnet, 
so termed in honour of 
the Italian aeronaut of 
that name 

Lunt, a column of smoke ; 
to smoke 

Luve, love ; luver, lover 

Lyart, silvery, light-co- 
loured ; grey ; sere 

Mae, mair, more 
Maist, most; 'maist,almost 
Maistly, mostly 
Mailen, farm ; estate 
MalJie, Molly, Mary 
'Mang, among 
Manse, the parish minis- 
ter's house 
Manteele, a mantle 
Mark, marks. (This and 
several other nouns 
which in English require 
an s, to form the plural, 
are in Scotch, like the 
words sheep, deer, the 
same in both numbers.) 
Marled, party-coloured 
Mar's year, the year 1715 
Mashlum, mixed corn 
Mask, to mash ; to infuse 
Maskin-pot, a tea-pot 
Masons, free-masons 
Maukin, a hare [not 

Maun, must; maunna, may 
Maut,malt ; groanin'maut, 
liquor provided for a 
lying-in or christening 
Mavis, the thrush 
Maw, mow ; mawn,mown 
Meere, a mare 
Meikle, or Mickle, much 
Melancholious, mournful 
Melder, corn or grain sent 

to be ground 
Mell, to meddle, associate 

with ; also a mallet 
Melvie, to soil with meal 
Men', to mend, amend 
Mense, good manners 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude 
Merle, a blackbird 
Messin, a small dog 
Mess John, a clergyman, 

the parish priest 
Midden, a dunghill 
Midden-creels,dungbaskets 
Midden-hole, gutter at the 

bottom of a dung-hill 
Mim, prim, affectedly meek 
Min', mind, resemblance 
Mind't, mind it, resolved, 
intending; remember it. 
(To mind, in the Scotch 
dialect, generally means, 
to recollect.) 



GLOSSARY. 



381 



Minnie, mother, dam 
Mirk, murky, murkiness; 

dark, darkness 
Misca',to abuse, call names 
Mischanter, evil; cross ac- 
cident 
Mislear'd, mischievous, 

unmannerly ; led astray 
Miss, a kept-woman 
Misteuk, mistook 
Mither, mother 
Mixtie-maxtie, jumbled 
Moil, labour 
Moistify, to moisten 
Mony, or Monie, many 
Mool, mould, earth ; raked 

in the mools, buried 
Moop, to nibble as a sheep 
Mborlan', of or belonging 

to moors 
Morn, next day, to-morrow 
Motty, full of motes 
Mou", the mouth 
Moudiewort, a mole 
Mousie, dimin. of mouse 
Muckle, great, big, much 
Muir, a moor 
Muses'-stank, Helicon 
Musie, dimin. of muse 
Muslin-kail, thin and poor 

vegetable broth 
Mutchkin, liquid measure 

of nearly an English pint 
Mystic-knot, conclave of 

gossips 

Na, no, not, nor ; nae, no, 
not any ; naething, nai- 
thing, nothing 

Naig, a horse, a nag 

Nane, none 

Nappy, ale 

Near-hand, nearly 

Neebor, neighbour 

Negleckit, neglected 

Neuk, nook, corner 

Nick, to cut 

Nicket, cut off 

JSTiest, or neist,next 

Nieve, the fist 

Niffer, an exchange 

Nines (paint to the), de- 
pict to the life 

Nit, a nut 

Nocht, nothing 

Nowte, black catt-le 

Ochils, name of mountains 
Ohaith! O. faith! an oath 
Oe, grandchild ; ier-oe, 

great-grand.'.hild 
O'erword, phrase or senti- 
ment continually recur- 
ring 
Ony, or Onie, any 
Or, is often used for ere, 

before 
Ora, or orra, superfluous; 
orra things, stray articles 
Oughtlins, in least decree 
Ourie, shivering, drooping 
Outlers, outliers, cattle not 

housed 
Out-ower, over, across 
Ower, owre, over, upon, 
too 



Owre-hip, a way of fetch- 
ing a blow with the ham- 
mer over the arm 

Owsen, oxen 

Pack, intimate, familiar; 

twelve stone of wool 
Paidl't, waded, splashed 

about ; crawling walk 
Painch, paunch 
Paitrick, a partridge 
Pang, to cram 
Parle, speech 

Parritch, oatmeal pudding 
Pat, did put ; a pot 
Pattlp, or pettle, a plough- 
scraper 
Paughty, proud, haughty 
Pawky, pauky, or pawkie, 

cunning, sly 
Pay 't, paid, beat ; pay their 

skin, beat them 
Pech, to fetch the breath 

short, as in an asthma 
Pechan, the stomach 
Pet, a domesticated sheep 
Pettle, to cherish 
Philibeg, the kilt 
Phraise, fair speeches, to 

flatter ; phraisin,flattery 
Pibroch, Celtic war-song 

adapted to the bag-pipe 
Pickle, a small quantity 
Pigmy-scraper, bad fiddler 
Piles, grains, particles 
Pin, a wooden skewer 
Pine, pain, uneasiness 
Pint (Scots), nearly two 

English quarts 
Pit, to put 
Placad, public call 
Plack, an old Scottish coin, 

of small value 
Plackless, pennyless 
Plaid, plaidie, an outer 

loose garment 
Platie, dimin. of plate 
Plea, quarrel, lawsuit, plot 
Plew, or pleugh, a plough 
Piiskie, a trick 
Pliver, a plover 
Plot, offence, trick 
Pock, a bag, a small sack 
Poind, to seize on cattle; 

take goods in execution 
Poortith, poverty 
Posie, a nosegay, a garland 
Pouk, to pluck at 
Pousse, pouse, to push, to 

penetrate 
Poussie, a hare ; a cat 
Pout, powt, a poult, a chick 
Pow, the head, the skull 
Pownie, pony, a little horse 
Powther, pouther, powder; 

pouthery, powdery 
Preen, a pin 
Prent, print; printing 
Prie, to taste ; prie't, tasted 
Prief, proof 
Prig-, to cheapen, to dis- 

putej priggin, haggling 
Primaie, dtemure, precise 
Propone, to lay down, to 

propose 
Provoses, provosts, chief 

magistrates of boroughs 



Pu', to pull ; pu't, did pull 

Puir, poor 

Pund, pound 

Pyet, magpie 

Pyke, pick 

Pyle, a single grain 

Qcjak, quake ; cry of a duck 
Quat, to quit ; quitted 
Quey, a cow from one to 

two years old 
Quo, quoth, said 

Ragweed, herb ragwort 
Raible, to rattle nonsense 
Rair, to roar ; to lament 
Raize, to madden, inflame 
Ram-feezl'd, overpowered, 

fatigued 
Ram-stam, headlong, for- 
ward, thoughtless 
Randy, a scold, a jade ; 
brutal fellow ; — randie 
gangrels,sturdy trampers 
Rantin', ranting; romp- 
ing, frolicking 
Rape, a rope 

Raploch, properly a coarse 
cloth, but used as an ad- 
noun for coarse 
Rase, raise, did rise 
Rash, a rush; rash-buss, 

a tuft of rushes 
Ratton, a rat 
Raucle, stout, fearless 
Raught, reached 
Raw, a row 

Rax, to stretch ; puff out 
Ream, cream ; to cream, 

to foam 
Reamin, brimful, frothing 
Reave, take by force 
Reck, to heed 
Red, to warn 
Red peats, burning turf 
Rede, counsel, to counsel 
Red-wat-shod, walking in 
blood over the shoe-tops 
Red-wud, stark mad 
Ree, half drunk, fuddled 
Reek, smoke ; reekit, 

smoky 
Reestit, stood restive; alst> 
stunted, withered; smoke 
dried 
Remead, remedy 
Rest, to stand restive 
Restricked, restricted 
Rew, relent, repent 
Riddle, a sieve 
Rief, reef, plunder; plenty 
Riet randies, sturdy beg- 
gars; ruffians 
Rickles, shocks of grain 
Rig, a ridge; hain'd-rig, 

reserved grassy corner 
Riggin, roof, rafters 
Rigwoodie, long, gaunt 
Rin, to run, to melt 
Rink, the course of the 

stones in curling on ice 
Rip, ripp, a handful of un- 

threshed corn 
Ripple, a blow 
Riskit, a wrenching noise 
Rive, to tear, pluck 
Rock, or roke, distaff 



382 



GLOSSARY. 



Rockin, spinning on the 
distaff; also a friendly 
meeting, for work and 
pleasure combined 

Roose, to praise 

Roun', round 

Roupet, hoarse from thirst, 
or a cold 

Routhie, plentiful 

Rowe, row; to roll, to wrap 

Rowt, to low, to bellow 

Rowth, or routh, plenty 

Rozet, rosin 

Rung, a cudgel 

Runkled, WTinkled 

Runt, the stem of cole wort 



Ruth, sorrow 
Ryke, reach 

Sabbin, sobbing; also com- 
mingling 

Sae, so 

Saft, soft 

Sair, ser'e, to serve; sair, 
a sore ; unlucky; sair- 
won, hard-earned 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 

Sair't, served 

Sail, shall 

Sark, a shirt or shift ; half- 
sarkit, poorly clad 

Saugh, the willow 

Saul, soul 

Saumont, salmon 

Saunt, a saint 

Saut, salt ; sautit, salted ; 
saut-basket, salt-box 

Saw, to sow ; sawin, sowing 

Sax, six 

Scaith or skaith,to damage, 
to injure 

Scar, to scare ; a scar, or 
scaur, foot of a precipice 

Scaud, to scald 

Scauld, to scold 

Scaur, apt to be scared 

Scawl, or scaul, a scold 

Scone, a bind of bread 

Sconner, scunner, a loath- 
ing; to loathe 

Scraich, skreigh, to scream 
as a hen, partridge, &c. 

Screed, to tear; a rent; de- 
tached portion 

Scriechin, shrieking, grat- 
ing noise 

Scrieve,to glide swiftly on; 
scrievin', going along 
briskly; also, to write, 
or inscribe 

Scrimp, to scant ; scrimpet, 
scanty ; scrimply, scarcely 

Seam, needlework 

Sel', self ; a body's sel', 
one's self alone 

Sell't, did sell 

Semple folk, common peo- 
ple 

Session, kirk session, petty 
spiritual court 

Sets, sets off, goes away 

Settlin, settling ; to get a 
settlin, to be frighted 
into quietness 

Shaird, a shred, a shard 

Shackl't. mis-shapen 



Shame (think), be ashamed 
Shangan, a stick cleft at 
t£ one end for putting the 

tail of a dog, &c. into 
Shaul, shallow 
Shaver, a humorous wag; 

a barber 
Shavie, a trick 
Shaw, to show ; a small 

wood in a hollow place 
Shearer, a reaper; shear- 
ing, reaping corn 
Sheen, bright, shining 
Sheep-shank, to think one's 

self nae sheep-shank, to 

be conceited 
Sherra-Muir, battle of 

Sherriffmuir, fought A.D, 

1715 (Mar's year). 
Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, 

a sluice 
Shiel, a shepherd's shed 
Shill, shrill 
Shog, a shock; a push off 

at one side 
Shool, a shovel 
Shoon, shoes 
Shore, to grant, deal out ; 

to offer ; to threaten 
Shouther, shoulder 
Sic, such 

Sicker, sure, steady, firm 
Sidelins, sidelong, slanting 
Silken snood, virgin's fillet 
Siller, silver ; money 
Silly, weak, frail, helpless 
Simmer, summer 
Sin, a son 
Sin', since, sinsyne, since 

that time 
Skaith, harm, damage 
Skellum, a reckless fellow 
Skelp, a slap ; to strike ; 

to walk briskly 
Skelpie-limmer, a young 

jade ; term of reproach 
Skelpin' on, brisk motion 
Skiegh, skeigh,proud,nice, 

high-mettled ; skittish 
Skinklin, thin, tinselly 
Skinking ware,trashy slops 
Skiri, shriek, cry shrilly 
Skirl't, shrieked 
Sklent,'slant; to run aslant, 

to deviate from truth 
Skreigh, a scream, also to 

scream ; to neigh 
Skyte, a blast 
Slae, sloe 
Sfade, did slide 
Slap, gate, breach in a 

fence 
Slaps, slops, dregs, remains 
Slaw, slow 

Slee, sly ; slee'st, slyest 
Sleekit, sleek, sly 
Sliddery, slippery 
Sloken, to slake thirst, &c. 
Slype, to fall over 
Slypet o'er, slipped, fell 
Sineddum,powder; mettle; 

sense ; red smeddum, 

precipitate of mercury 
Smeek, smoke * 
Smiddy, a smithy 
Smoor, to smother 
Smoutie, sooty ; obscene 



Smytrie,a numerous collec- 
tion of small individuals 

Snapper, stumble 

Snash, reprimand ; abuse 

Snaw, snow ; to snow 

Snaw broo, melting snow 

Sneck,snick,latch of a door 

Sned, to lop, to cut off; 
to sned besoms, thraw 
saugh woodies, to make 

' brooms, willow baskets 

Sneeshin, snuff 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box 

Snell, bitter, biting 

Snick-drawing, tricky 

Snirtle, sneer 

Snool, one whose spirit is 
broken with oppressive 
slavery ; to submit tame- 
ly ; to sneak 

Snoove, to go smoothly and 
constantly ; to sneak 

Sonnet, a song 

Snowk, to scent or snuff as 
a dog 

Sonsie, having sweet engag- 

^ ing looks, comely, plump 

Soom, to swim 

Sot, a fool 

Sooth, truth ! a petty oath 

Sough, or sugh, a sigh, a 
sound dying on the ear 

Souk, suck, draught 

Souple, flexible, swift 

Souter, a cobbler, a shoe- 
maker 

Southron, English 

Sowens, a dish made of the 
seeds of oatmeal soured 

Sowp, a spoonful, a small 
quantity of any thing 
liquid 

Sowth, to try over a tune 
with a low whistle 

Sowther, souther, solder; 
to solder, to cement ; to 
reconcile ; to compensate 

Spae,to prophesy, to divine 

Spak', spoke 

Spaul, a limb 

Spat, spot 

Spairge, to sprinkle, to 
asp'erse, to dash ; to soil 

Spaviet, having the spavin 

Spean, to wean ; to disgust 

Speat, or spate, a sweeping 
torrent after rain or thaw 

Speel, to climb 

Spence, inner room of a cot 

Spier, to ask, to inquire 

Spier't, inquired 

Splatter, a splutter; to 
splutter 

Spleuchan,a tobacco-pouch 

Splore, a frolic, noise, riot 

Spouts, leaps 

Sprachle, to scramble 

Spreckled, speckled 

bpring, a quick air in 
music, a Scotch reel ; 
play'd mysel' a bonny 
spring, done myself a 
great injury 

Sprit, a rush-like plant 

Sprush, spruce, smart 

Spunk, brimstone match ; 
fire, mettle, wit 



GLOSSARY. 



383 



Spunkie,mettlesome, fiery; 

will-o'-wisp, ignis fatuus 
Spurtle, a stick used in 

making hasty-pudding 
Squad, a crew, a party 
Squatter, to nutter as a 

wild duck, &c. 
Squattle, to squat, sprawl 
Squeel,a scream, a screech; 

to scream 
Stacher, to stagger 
Stack,rick of corn,hay,&c. 
Staggie, dimin. of stag 
Stalwart, strong, stout 
Stan', to stand ; stan't, did 

stand 
Stane, a stone 
Stang, sting, stung 
Stank, a pool of standing 

water ; a wet ditch 
Stap, stop 

Stark, stout, potent 
Starns, starnies, stars 
Startle, to run as cattle 

stung hy the gadfly 
Staumrel, a blockhead ; 

half-witted creature 
Staw, did steal ; a surfeit 
Stech, to cram the belly 
Steek, to shut ; a stitch 
Steer, to molest ; to stir 
Steeve, firm, compact 
Stell, a still 
Sten, to rear as a horse 
Stents, tribute, dues of 

any kind 
Stey, steep 
Stibble, stubble ; stibble- 

rig, the leading reaper 
Stick an' stowe, totally 
Stile, a crutch; to halt, 

to limp 
Stimpart, the eighth part 

of a "Winchester bushel 
Stipend, clergyman's pay 
Stirk, a cow or bullock a 

year old 
Stock, a plant or sprout of 

colewort, cabbage, &c. 
Stoitered, staggered, tot- 
tered 
Stook, a sheaf; stooked, 

made up in shocks as corn 
Stoor, sounding hollow, 

strong and hoarse 
Stound, a numbing blow 
Stot, an ox 
Stoup, or stowp, a kind of 

jug with a handle 
Stoure, or stour, dust 
Stowlins, by stealth 
Stown, stolen 
Stoyte, stumbling walk 
Strack, did strike 
Strae, straw 

Straik, stroke ; did strike 
Straikit, stroked 
Strathspey, lively High- 
land tune or dance 
Straught, straight 
Streek,to stretch ; streekit, 

stretched 
Striddle, straddle 
Stroan, to spout ; to urine 
Studdie, an anvil 
Strunt, spirituous liquor; 

walk sturdily; be piqued 



Sturt,to trouble ; unquiet- 
ness; sturtin, frighted 

Sucker, sugar 

Sud, should 

Sumph,afool, stupid fellow 

Swaird, sward 

Swall'd, swelled 

Swank, stately, well built 

Swankie, or swanker, a 
strapping fellow or girl 

Swarf, swoon 

Swat, did sweat 

Swatch, a sample 

Swats, drink, ale 

Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead- 
sweer. extremely averse 

Swoor, swore, did swear 

Swinge, to beat, to whip 

Swirl, a curve, an eddying 
blast or pool; knot inwood 

Swirlie, gnarled, knotty 

Swith, get away ! 

Swither, hesitate in choice 

Sybow, thick-necked onion 

Syne, since, ago, then, af- 
terwards; auldlangsyne, 
the dear olden time 

TACKETS,kind of shoe-nails 

Tack, a lease 

Tae, a toe ; three-tae'd, 
having three prongs 

Thief (the foul), Satan 

Tairge, target ; to examine 

Tamtallan, an old feudal 
castle on the south-east 
coast of Scotland 

Tangle, kind of sea-weed 

Tap, the top 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish 

Tapsalteerie, topsy-turvy 

Tarrow, to murmur at 
one's allowance 

Tarrow't, murmured 

Tarry -breeks, a sailor 

Tassie (Fr. tasse), drink- 
ing-cup, beaker 

Tauld, or tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish thought- 
less young woman 

Tauted, tawted, or tautie 
hair,&c. matted together 

Tawie, that allows itself 
peaceably to be handled 

Teat, a small quantity ; a 
handful 

Tedding, spreading after 
the mower 

Temper-pin, part of a spin- 
ning-wheel 

Ten-hour's-bite, early bait 

Tent, a field pulpit ; heed, 
caution ; take heed 

Tentie, heedful, cautious 

Tentless, regardless, heed- 
less 

Teugh, tough 

Thack, thatch; lhack-an'- 
rape (figuratively),cloth- 
ingand necessaries 

Thae, tl'iir, these 

Thaim, them 

Thairms, fiddle-strings 

Theekit, thatched 

Thegither, together 

Themsel', themselves 

Thick, intimate, familiar 



Thieveless, cold, dry; said 
of a person's demeanour 

Thirl, to thrill 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated 

Thole, to suffer, to endure 

Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw 

Thowless, thewless, slack 

Thrang, throng, a crowd; 
thickly ; much occupied 

Thrapple, throat,windpipe 

Thraw, to turn, to sprain, 
to twist ; to counterwork 
obstinatelyor maliciously 

Thrawin, twisting, &c. 

Thrawn,sprained, twisted; 
cross-grained (in temper) 

Threap, to maintain by dint 
of obstinate assertion 

Threshin, thrashing 

Threteen, thirteen 

Thristle, thistle 

Through, to go on with, 
to make out 

Throuther,thro'ither, pell- 
mell, confusedly 

Thud, a blow producing a 
dull heavy sound 

Thumpit, thumped 

Tightly, completely ; se- 
verely 

Till, to ; till't, to it 

Timmer, timber; also trees 

Tine,tyne,to lose ; tint,lost 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tint the gate, lost the way 

Tip, tuip, toop, a ram 

Tippence, two-pence; tip- 
penny, country ale 

Tirl, to make aslight noise; 
to uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittie, female cousin 

Tittle, to whisper 

Tittlin', whispering 

Tocher, marriage portion; 
tocher band (bond), mar- 
riage settlement 

Tod, a fox 

Toddle, to totter, like a 
child; toddlin', tottering 

Toom, empty ; to empty 

Toss, toast 

Toun,ahamlet; also afarm- 
house 

Tout, the blast of a horn 
or trumpet; to blow a 
horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope ; wallop in a 
tow, dangle in a halter 

Towmond, a twelvemonth 

Towzie, rough, shaggy 

Toy, a very old fashion of 
female head-dress 

Toy te,to totter like old age 

Traced, put in traces 

Trams, shafts of a vehicle 

Transmogrified, trans- 

formed 

Trashtrie, trash, rubbish 

Trews, trowsers 

Trig, spruce, neat 

Trimly, excellently 

Trowth, truth ; b} my 
truth ! 

Tryste, couUry wake, fair 
rendezvous 



384 



GLOSSARY. 



Trysted, appointed ; to 
tryste, to make an ap- 
pointment 

Try't, tried 

Tug, raw hide, of which, in 
old times, plough-traces 
were frequently made 

Tug or tow, leather or rope 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quar- 
rel, to fight 

Twa,two; twa-three, a few 

'Twad, it would 

Twal, twelve j the twalt, 
twelfth part; twal-pennie 
worth, a small quantity, 
one English pennyworth 

Twin, to part 

Tyke, a dog 

Unco, strange, uncouth ; 
very, very great, prodi- 
gious ; unco folks, stran- 
gers ; uncos, uncommon 
events ; news 
Unfauld, to unfold 
Unkenn'd, unknown 
Unsicker, unsure 
Unskaith'd, undamaged 
Unweeting, unknowingly 
Urchin, a hedgehog 

Vapour, vap'rin, vapour- 
ing, bullying, bragging 

Vauntie, vain, proud 

Vera, very 

Virl, a ring round a cane, 
column, &c. 

Wa', wall 

Wab, web 

Wabster, a weaver 

Wad, would ; to bet, a bet, 

a pledge ; to wed 
Wadna, would not 
Wae, wae, sorrowful ; wae 

worth ! woe to 
Waefu' woodie, halter 
Waesucks! or uae's me ! 

alas ! O the pity 
Waft, woof 

Waifu', waefu', wailing 
Wair, ware, to lay out, to 

expend 
Wale, choice ; to choose 
Waled, chose, chosen 
Walie,ample, large, plump; 

also an exclamation of 

distress 
Wallop (in a tether) be 

hanged 
Wame (womb), the belly 
Wamefu', a belly-full 
Wanchancie, unlucky 
Wanner, wander 
Wanrestfu', restless 
Wark, work 
Wark-loom (best), mem- 

brum virile 
Warl', or warld, world 
Warlock, a wizard ; war- 

lock-brief, a spell 
Warlock-knowes, knolls of 

haunted repute 
Warl'y, worldly, eager in 

amassing wealth 
Warran', a warrant; to 

warrant 



Warst, worst 

Warstled, or warsled, 
wrestled; rolled over 

Was (often stands for) wast 

Wa's, walls 

Wastrie, prodigality 

Wat, wet ; I wat, I wot, 1 
know; red-wat-shod,over 
the shoes in blood 

Water-brose, brose made 
of oatmeal and water 

Wattle, a twig, a wand 

Wauble, to swing, to reel ; 
to waddle 

Waught, draught ; willie- 
waught, hearty pull 

Wauk, wake 

Wauken, waking, awake 

Waukit, thickened as ful- 
lers do cloth; callous 

Waukrife, wakeful 

Waur, worse, to worst 

Waiir[t, worsted, overcome 

Ways' (come thy), come 
away 

Wean (wee ane, i.e. little 
one) or weanie, a child 

Weason, weasand 

Weave stockings, to knit 
hose 

Wee, little ; wee things, 
little ones ; wee bit, a 
small matter 

Weel, well ; weel-fa'rd, 
well-favour'd, handsome 

Weelfare, welfare 

Weet, rain, wetness 

Weird, fate 

We'se, we shai 

Wha, who 

Whaizle, to wheeze 

Whalpit, whelped 

Whang, a leathern thong; 
a piece of cheese, bread, 
&c. ; give the strappado 

Whare, whaur, where ; 
whare'er, wherever 

Whase, whose 

What-reck, nevertheless 

Whaup, the curlew 

Wheep, fly nimbly, to jerk ; 
penny-wheep, small beer 

Whid,the motion of a hare, 
running but not fright- 
ed; a lie 

Whiddin, running as a 
hare or coney 

Whigmeleeries, whims, 
fancies, crotchets 

Whingein, crying, com- 
plaining, fretting 

Whins, furze bushes 

Whirligigums, useless or- 
naments 

Whisht, silence ! 

Whisk, to sweep, to lash 

Whisking (beard), cat-like 

Whitter, whet ; a hearty 
draught of liquor 

Whittle, a knife 

Whunstane, a whinstone 

Whup, whip 

Whyies, whiles, sometimes 

Wick, to strike a stone in 
an oblique direction; a 
term in the winter diver- 
sion of curling 



Wicker, willow, (t. e. the 
I smaller sort) 
Widdieful, twisted like a 
withy; contemptible; one 
deserving the gallows 
Wiel, a small whirlpool 
Wifie, a dimin. or endear- 
ing term for wife 
Willy art, bewildered 
Wimple, to meander 
Win, to win, to get, to earn 
Win', wind; win's, winds ; 

also to winnow 
Win't, winded, as a bottom 
of yarn ; winnin', wind- 
ing 
Winna, will not 
Winnock, a window 
Winsome, comely, vaunted 
Wintle, a staegering mo- 
tion ; to stagger, to reel ; 
to quiver 
Winze, an oath 
Wiss, to wish ; to have % 

strong desire 
Wit, to know 
Withouten, without 
Witless, simple, easily im- 
posed on 
Wizen'd, dried, shrunk 
Wonner, an intruder 
Wons, dwells 
Woo', wool 
Woodie, a rope, properly 

one made of withies 
Wooer-bab, lover's rosette; 
the garter fancifully 
knotted outwardly r below 
the knee 
Wordy, worthy 
Worset, worsted 
Wow, an exclamation of 

pleasure or wonder 
Wrack, to teaze, to vex 
Wraith, wrath; also a spi- 
rit, a ghost ; an appari- 
tion exactly like a living 
person, boding his death 
Wrang, wrong, to wrong 
Wreath, drifted snow 
Writers, attorneys, lawyers 
Wud, enraged 
Wud-mad, distracted 
Wummle, a wimble 
Wyle, beguile, wheedle 
Wylie-coat, a flannel vest 
Wyte, blame ; to blame 

Yard, a kitchen garden 
Ye; this pronoun is fre 

quently used for thou 
Yearlings, yealings, born 

in the same year, coevals 
Yell, barren, milkless 
Yerk, to lash, to jerk 
Yerkit, jerked, lashed 
Yestreen, yesternight, the 

night before 
Yett, a gate, such as leads 

to a farm-yard or field 
Yeuking, itching 
Yill, ale 
Yird, earth 

Yokin', yoking, a bout 
Yont, ay r ont, beyond 
Yowe, yowie, a ewe 
Yule, Christmas 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



POEMS. 



A Gude New- Year I wish thee, 

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink 

Admiring Nature, in her wildest grace 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl 

Again the silent wheels of time 

All hail, inexorable lord I ... 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

As I stood by yon roofless tower 

As Mailie and her lambs thegither 

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner . 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased 

Dear Smith, the slce'st pawkie thief 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 
Expect na, sir, in this narration 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face 
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul 
Fair the face of orient day 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 
For lords or kings I dinna mourn 
Friend of the Poet, tried and leal 



Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Gude-morning to your Majesty 
Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnie 



PAGE 

. 12 

. 124 

. 168 

. 226 

. 159 

. 67 

. 169 

. 215 

. 2 

. 130 



159 
167 

54 
157 
178 

148 
126 

15 
167 
182 
174 
176 
210 

105 
137 

, 80 



Ha ! wh'are ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ! 
Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! . 
c c 



121 
218 



386 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the de'il ? 
He clench 'd his pamphlets in his fist 
Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran chief ! 
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots 
Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay- 
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives 
How cold is that bosom which folly once fired ! 
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie 

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor 

I lang ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend 

I mind it weel in early date 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art 

Is there a whim-inspired fool 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 
Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw 
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg , 

Let other poets raise a fracas 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang 

My honour 'd Colonel, deep I feel 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

My loved, my honour'd, much-respected friend 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more ! 
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
Now Nature hangs her mantle green 
Now Robin lies in his last lair 

O a' ye pious, godly flocks .... 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

O Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine 

O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above 

O Thou Great Being ! what Thou art 

O thou pale orb, that silent shines 

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

O Thou, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell 

O Thou, whatever title suit thee 

O ye wha are sae gude yourseP . 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard 
Once fondly loved, and still remember'd dear 
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care 
Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox 



387 

PAGE 

. 221 
. 158 
. 109 
. 35 



Revered defender of beauteous Stuart 
Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true 



169 
53 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page 

Sensibility, how charming 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough 

Sir, as your mandate did request 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card 

Some books are lies frae end to end 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour 

Sweet fiow'ret, pledge o' meikle love . 



, 158 

, 226 

, 220 

194 

135 

30 

224 

131 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare 

The man, in life wherever placed 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough 

The sun had closed the winter day 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills 

The wintry west extends his blast 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among 

There were Five Carlines in the south 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain 

This wot ye all whom it concerns 

Those of an independent mind . 

Thou whom chance may hither lead 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young fair friend 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are plied 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn 
Upon that night, when fairies light 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped fiow'r 

Wee, sleekit, cowerin', tim'rous beastie 

What ails ye now, ye lousy b— h 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on 

When biting Boreas, fell and douro 

When chapman billies leave the street 

When chill November's surly blast 

When Guildford good our pilot stood 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird 

When Nature her great masterpiece designed 

While at the stook the shearers cower 



. 228 
. 175 
. 133 
. 151 
. 58 
. 207 
. 1 
. 222 
. 191 
. 225 
. 185 
. 147 
. 216 
. 170 
. 209 
. 204 
. 141 
. 221 

. 44 
. 93 

■ H7 

84 
136 
179 

18 
196 

65 
160 

21 
172 

81 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



While briers and woodbines budding green 
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things 
While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake 
While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood 
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw 
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 
Why, ye tenants of the lake ? 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie 



69 
217 

72 

211 

5 

17 
166 
184 



Ye Scottish lords, ye knights and squires . 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir 174 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As father Adam first was fool'd 
Ask why God made the gem so small 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes 
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness 
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway 

Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in life 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 



Here lies Johnny Pigeon . . 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man 
Here lie Willie Michie's banes 
Here Souter Hood in death does sleep 

In politics if thou would'st mix 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 
Know thou, O stranger to the fame 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a' 

No sculptured marble here, no pompous lay 
No more of your guests, be they titled or not 
No Stewart art thou, Galloway 

O Death ! badst thou but spared his life 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind 

O thou, whom poesy abhors 

O thou, who kindly dost provide 

O ye ; whose cheek the tear of pity stains 



229 
231 
235 

230 
232 
234 

237 

, 235 

, 230 
231 
ib. 
230 

, 235 
, 237 

233 
, 229 



. 231 
. 233 
. 234 

. 231 

. 233 

ib. 

236 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times . 
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell . 



Searching old wives' harrels 
Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway 
Such a reptile was Wat 



That there is falsehood in his looks 

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying 

The greybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures 

The King's most humble servant, I ... 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps 

We came na here to view your warks 

What dost thou in that mansion fair 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here * 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know . . . 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 



389 

PAGE 

. 234 
. 231 

. 236 
• 234 
. 232 

. 233 
. 232 
. 234 
. 237 
. 230 

. 236 
. 234 
. 235 
, ib. 
. 230 

. 23G 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 

A Highland lad my love was born 

A rose-bud by my early walk 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu 

Adown winding Nith I did wander 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 

Again rejoicing nature sees .... 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir 

Altho' thou maun never be mine 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 

As I gaed down the water side 

As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin' 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive 

Blithe ha'c I been on yon hill 

Bonnie wee thing, carmic wee thing 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me . 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day 







. . 24 




. 270 






. . 261 






. 336 






. . 294 






. 259 






. . 244 






. 370 






. 315 






. 314 






. 313 






. 279 






. . 298 






. 3/1 






. 250 






. 337 






. 330 






. 289 






. 344 






. 262 






. 335 






. 268 






292 



390 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Can I cease to care ? 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west 
Come, let me take thee to my breast 
Coming through the rye, poor body 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair 
Could aught of song declare my pains 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? . 

Duncan Gray came here to woo 



Farewell thou stream that winding flows . . 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 

First when Maggie was my care ... 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near . 

From thee, Eliza, I must go 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear . 



Gane is the day, and mirk's the night 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang .... 

Her flowing locks the raven's wing 

Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie 

Here is the glen, and here the bower 

Here's a health to them that's awa' . 

How can my poor heart be glad . 

How cruel are the parents ..... 

How long and dreary is the night 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon 

Husband, husband, cease your strife . 



I am a bard of no regard .... 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars 

I am my mammie's ae bairn 

I do confess thou art sae fair .... 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing . 

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen .... 

I ha'e a wife o' my ain .... 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when 

I see a form, I see a face .... 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near . 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn 

Is there, for honest poverty .... 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard . 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 

It was the charming month of May 

It was upon a Lammas night .... 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss 
John Anderson my jo, John 



Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang glen 
Let me ryke up to dight that tear 
Let not woman e'er complain .... 
Loud blaw the frosty breezes . . 
Louis, what reck I by thee .... 



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Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion . 

Musing on the roaring ocean 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass 

My Father was a Farmer 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves 

My Harry was a gallant gay . 

My heart is sair, I darena tell 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie 

My lord a-hunting he is gane * 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form * . . 



Nae gentle dames, though e'er sae fair . 
No churchman am I for to rail and to write 
Now bank and brae are claith'd in green 
Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays 
Now Nature deeds the flowery lea 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers . 
Now spring has clad the groves in green 
Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes 
Now westlin' winds, and slaught'ring guns 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier ... 

O cam' ye here the fight to shun ? 

O gin my love were yon red rose 

O how shall I, unskilfu', try . 

O how can I be blithe and glad .... 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet .... 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass : 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles . 

O leeze me on my spinning-wheel «... 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 

O luve will venture in where it daurna wcel be seen 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 

O Mary, at thy window be 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty . 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose 

O, once I loved a bonnie lass .... 

O Philly, happy be that day . 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 



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O raging fortune's withering blast . 

O, sad and heavy should I part . . . 

O saw ye my dear, niy Phely ? 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley .... 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? , 

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay 

O tell na me o' wind and rain 

O wat ye wha's in yon town 

O were I on Parnassus' hill . 

O wha is she that lo'es me 

O wha my babie-ciouts will buy 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar 

O Willie brew'd a pack o' maut 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass 

One night as I did wander 

On peace and rest my mind was bent 

Out over the Forth I look to the north 

Powers celestial, whose protection . 

Raving winds around her blowing 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets . 

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled 

See the smoking bowl before us 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 

She is a winsome wee thing . ... 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou . . 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Streams that glide in orient plains 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bum 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen 

The de'il cam' fiddling through the town 

The day returns, my bosom burns 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast . 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 

The lovely lass o' Inverness .... 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing . 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea . 

The tither morn ....... 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon 
There was a bonnie lass . . 

There was a lad was born at Kyle . . ■ 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

There was a lass, and she was fair 

There was once a day, hut old Time then was young 

There were three kings into the east 

There's auld Boh Morris that wons in yon glen 

There's a youth in this city .... 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow hraes 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess . 

There's nought but care on ev'ryhan' 

They snool me sair, and haud me down . 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling 

Thine am I, my faithful fair 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray . 

Though cruel Fate should bid us part 

To thee, loved Nith, thy gladsome plains 

True-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza .... 

'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green 

Wae is my heart, and the tear 's in my e'e . 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning . 

Where, braving angry winter's storms . 

Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea 

While larks with little wing . . 

Why, why tell thy lover . . . . 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 

Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed .... 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 



Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 

Ye banks and braes, and streams around 

Ye flowering banks o' bonnie Doon 

Ye gallants bright, I rede you right 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 

Yestreen I met you on the moor 

Young Jockey was the blytliest lad 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass . 

You're welcome to despots, Dumourier 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 



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